Childlike Innocence
by Nikola Nial Keheley
Summary: What makes a person: their genetics or experiences? Sherlock Holmes is a great man, but when an attack leaves a younger version of him in the care of Doctor John Hamish Watson will he become a good man too, or something else entirely? Contains: slightly fictitious scientific explanations, light language,mild gore, and friendship fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello again. My first story was pretty angst ridden and odd, so I thought I would try my hand at something fluffier (although probably just as insane once I'm done with it). I know there are many stories involving a "de-aged" Sherlock or John, but I wanted to try my hand at one because I have taken many courses on childhood psychological and physiological development and think I can bring that prospective to the genre. Also the other story I'm working on is super dark, so I am using this at a lighter palate cleanser in between heaver courses. Please let me know what you think.**

* * *

It had started as a normal day. Well, as normal as a day ever got for John Watson. He had woken up to the odor of rotten eggs and smoke filled vision only to rush down the stairs and find his best friend, flat mate, and live in git Sherlock Holmes standing over a sauce pan billowing arid clouds of dark smoke. Apparently the consulting detective had discovered a compound which could be used to create a portable smoke screen. The tall man had relayed this information whilst jumping around the flat imploring the good doctor to think about all of the possible uses for such a discovery. John Watson took a deep breath which he immediately regretted, as it led to a smoke and smell fueled coughing fit, and begun to open the windows to air out the living space. Once the air was deemed breathable John began his morning ritual of making tea while listening to his flat mate happily chatter about his new discovery. The dark haired man was in rare form that morning; the doctor had feared Sherlock was about to fall into a black mood, as he had not had a case in a week and his violin concertos had become more melancholy as the days went on. This morning however, he was rather jubilant and Watson could not help smiling at the improvement of his mood.

That was of course until he opened the refrigerator and found it lacking in milk.

"Oh, and we're out of milk." The deep baritone intoned from its perch on the coffee table.

"Sherlock, why would you let me make tea when you knew we were out?" The doctor sighed as he slammed the refrigerator door shut.

"John, I have just made an important scientific discovery, and you're worried about a trivial thing like tea," the detective scoffed.

"It's not trivial when you were woken up at four in the morning by your nutter flatmate!" John marched to the coat rack and grabbing his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"Make a deduction Sherlock! I'm going to get the bloody milk so I can have my bloody morning tea!"

"In your pajamas?"

John looked down to realize that he was indeed in his sweat pants and an old t-shirt, but he was not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him slink back to his room to change. "Well it is four in the morning; I don't think I'm going to run into anyone I know at Tescos." With that the doctor slipped on his shoes and slammed the door as he wandered out in the search for lactose.

An hour later John Watson turned back down Baker Street plastic bags in hand. A walk had always been good for his head, and now that the sun was rising he realized that Sherlock had simply been well, Sherlock and that perhaps he had over reacted. Fishing his keys out of his pocket John decided that he would apologize to the crazy brilliant man about his outburst this morning. Approaching the door he suddenly noted that it was slightly ajar. Further inspection showed the frame had been splintered; the door had been kicked in. Plastic bags slipped from his hands allowing their formerly precious contents to be spilled onto the front landing stairs.

Making the effortless slip from doctor to captain John pushed the door fully open and shooed away the wish for his gun. The foyer was dark, the only light streaming through the now open doorway. It fell on a dark lump which lay at the bottom of the stairs in a pool for blackening red. John's felt his stomach drop at he raced forward to the figure. Stooping down he placed two fingers onto its neck. No pulse.

No. Not again.

The world stilled around the two bodies on the hard wood floor; one with dark hair lying in a quickly cooling pool of sticky life blood, and the other blonde and trembling over the first. Tears stung John's eyes as he began to turn the body of the other man. The neck had been broken, most likely from a fall down the stairs, and he had to cradle the head to turn it as the vertebra were no longer fitting together cohesively. Finally the face fell into the rays of light and Doctor Watson let out a gasp.

Not Sherlock.

The body before him was in its mid-forties, its dark face scarred with pocks from a difficult adolescence. No, this was not Sherlock. The doctor's heart swelled with relief as he quickly stood up.

"Sherlock?" John yelled. "Sherlock are you here?"

Silence seemed to stretch out an eternity before a quiet weak voice stumbled down the stairs, "John?"

Jumping over the body John bounded up the stairs, and stopped two steps short of their landing. Leaning against the base of the wall sat Sherlock Holmes in all his dressing gown glory. John was momentarily filled with joy until he truly took in the sight before him. Sherlock's normally pale visage was now practically translucent; sweat drenched his face, causing dark curls to stick to his forehead, but the most troubling sight was the syringe sticking out of his right upper arm.

"Jesus," John breathed as he fell before his flat mate. Reaching into his coat pocket he quickly procured his phone.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock slurred, hazy gray eyes following the doctor's movements.

"I'm getting you an ambulance," John quickly explained beginning to dial 999.

"No," Sherlock moaned, reaching out and placing his hand over the doctor's phone.

"Sherlock this is no time for you to be stubborn, you need to go to the hospit…"

"John, I've been lying here for forty five minutes. It's too late; I don't want to go to the hospital… please."

The tears John had been holding back began to slide down his cheeks. He had witnessed people, many people make this decision on the dessert, and he had given them their wish for comfort as opposed to medical assistance. How could he not do the same for his friend?

"Alright," John squeaked then clearing his throat began again "Alright Sherlock. What do you want then?"

Sherlock sent John a small smile of thanks, "What I want," he explained as he reached up to dislodge the needle from his arm, "is to go back into the flat."

"Alright," John conceded with a nod of his head as he placed his friend's arm around his neck to help him into the open door of the flat. John could tell Sherlock was suffering more than he let on, as the doctor seemed to be shouldering most of the thin man's weight. Still, John was surprised how easily he maneuvered the other man into the flat. Usually when he and Sherlock had done something like this in the past the height difference of the two made it difficult for them to fall into a comfortable rhythm. Now though they fell into a comfortable pace. It seemed they had perfected this strange dance, too bad it would be their last he could not help but think.

John was pulled out of his ominous thoughts by an agonizing scream coming from the man next to him. Sherlock had fallen to his knees and arched his back in obvious pain. John hurriedly dropped to his knees next to the lithe body. They had not made it to the couch like he had hoped, so the floor would have to do.

"Sherlock… shhh Hey I've got you. It's okay." John wrapped his arms around his flat mate and pulled him onto his lap. He could not give a damn if people would talk. Sherlock Holmes was dying and he was not going to let societal norms stop him from comforting his best friend.

"JOHN! IT HURTS JOHN!" the detective screamed gnashing his teeth. John held him tighter rubbing small circles onto his back with one hand, and tucking the curly head of hair under his chin.

Silence fell in 221B as the world's only consulting detective began to still. "Sh-Sherlock?" John breathed, fearing that he was now alone in the flat.

"It's okay," John felt more than heard rumble through his sternum, "I, I think I'm alright for now," he gasped. More silence followed before the rumble came again, "I'm sorry about the milk, John."

"Shut up," John breathed "it's just milk Sherlock you were right. I overreacted"

A deep chuckle followed, "You're just saying that because this happened. I honestly don't know how you've put up with me this long." The detective sighed, "Maybe this is for the best; I didn't know what I'd do when you finally moved out. Now I don't have to worry about it."

"Sherlock you git, I had already forgiven you before I got back to the flat."

"Why?" It seemed even pain could not hide the detective's inquiry driven nature.

"Because I had three years without you, and I was bloody awful at it. You're my best friend Sherlock, I can't imagine my life without you, and now you're leaving me again."

"I am sorry John."

"No, Sherlock its fine. It's all fine." Before he realized what he was doing John had placed his lips on the crown of the consultant's head. His curls were drenched with sweat, but the scent of his expensive shampoo still lingered. The younger man tensed in his lap, and John suddenly noticed what he had done and pulled back. God, did he really need to make Sherlock's lasts moments awkward?

To John's surprise the young man suddenly relaxed, and shockingly wrapped his arms around John's t-shirt clad torso, burrowing his face into the warn fabric.

"I'm… I'm scared John." The admission was muffled by thin cotton, but it brought tears to John's eyes all the same.

"I am too," John confessed tightening his arms around the thin man. Doctor Watson wanted to add more, something to comfort the dying man, but the moment was interrupted by a blood curdling scream. Sherlock's arms tightened around John, pushing the air out of the short man's diaphragm as he buried his head deeper into the ex-soldier's chest. John pulled him still closer to his body, rubbing circles on his back and whispering words the detective would normally scoff at as sentiment, but John desperately hoped brought some comfort. The screams of pain continued until the situation suddenly changed.

The first thing John became aware of was the growing wet spot on his t shirt. Sherlock Holmes was crying the pain must have been immense. Soon though John became aware that Sherlock's arms seemed to be retracting from him even though his hands were still wound in John's shirt, the retraction caused John's shirt to be pulled uncomfortably, but he did not mind, could not with his friend leaving this world. Through both of these experiences John kept his eyes closed, unable to watch his friend's agonizing death. When the doctor's arms seemed to be enveloping a shrinking vessel though, he steeled himself and finally looked down. The screaming had stopped by then, and an eerie silence had fallen over the flat. What he saw shocked him.

Sherlock's navy blue dressing gown seemed to be all that was left of the incredibly intelligent man. The silken garment was splayed about on the blonde's lap, reaching out to the left where his friend's long legs once rested. There was still a weight on John's legs though, and his shirt was still being gripped as though for dear life. Taking a deep breath John pulled back the material to reveal a small tussle of dark brown hair. Flinging the dressing gown farther away uncovered two small arms whose hands had a death grip on the doctor's pajamas, and legs peeking out beneath a ruffled inside out t-shirt. The most extraordinary find was the rise and fall of the small torso; breathing in the syncopated rhythm indicative of sleep.

* * *

**Is angsty fluff a thing? It has to be, because I think that is what I just wrote. Do you guys want me to keep going with this or should I just keep this idea to myself? Let me know if you feel inclined, and thank you for reading.**

**-Nikola **


	2. Chapter 2

**I heard you guys loud and clear so I'm here with chapter two. I have recently seen TEH so I am reworking later chapters to fit with what was presented, and school has started back up so it may be awhile (a week or so) before the next chapter is available. I feel I should also explain that children around Sherlock's age tend to omit or substitute syllables in words which you may see below. I'll stop rambling now. Here is chapter two.**

* * *

Despite what the consulting detective might imply Captain John Hamish Watson was a man of science. Like most doctors he lived by the idea that if hoof beats are heard in Hyde Park one should think horses not zebras, the most logical answer is usually the correct one. Sitting on the floor of 221B holding what seemed to be a miniature version of his flat mate however, Doctor Watson began to consider how useful this metaphor really was for his life. On one hand he found himself relieved, overjoyed in fact. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend was alive, he could almost cry with happiness. And yet, this situation did not make any semblance of sense. There is no way, absolutely no way that a full grown man could be reduced to the image of himself at the age of, what? Three years. He could almost hear the deep baritone scoff in his head. No, matter cannot be created or destroyed; Sherlock could not have shrunk no matter what seemed to be clinging to his chest. John had nearly convinced himself that this was in fact a crazy dream when he registered the smallest of movements from the figure occupying his lap.

"Sherlock?" The doctor's voice felt rusty from disuse and emotion. Joy and fear were fighting for the stage the sadness had just recently vacated, "Sherlock," He whispered again, "hey did you fall asleep?"

John mentally kicked himself the moment the words left his lips. This was a ridiculous insane situation, and he was asking his flat mate if he had fallen asleep. Really?! Although given the circumstances he supposed he could forgive himself for not knowing where to start.

"No," came the t-shirt muffled response not in the familiar rumble, but a child's lighter pitched croak indicative of crying and sleep. It made sense really, considering how much smaller this body was, of course Sherlock's vocal chords would be shorter, causing his voice to be a much higher. Despite himself John felt a smile pull at his lips. The blatant lie about something as simple as a necessity like sleeping was just so very Sherlock, he welcomed the normalcy despite how distorted. The blonde closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. Sherlock was alive. Everything was okay, weird, but okay. Unfortunately this feeling did not last long.

The army doctor's arms (which were still wrapped around the small being) were very quickly disengaged. Before John could process this happening the sound of small hurried footsteps heading towards the flat door pulled him out of his short lived emotional respite.

"Sherlock?" John scrambled to his feet just in time to see the tail of a gray t-shirt slide around the doorframe. "Sherlock!"

The doctor had chased the consulting detective all throughout London and was used to keeping a break neck pace to stay close to the longer legged man, however the brunette's current state seemed to slow his momentum to a great degree. As it was John caught up to Sherlock frozen three steps from the bottom of the stairs, gawking at the mangled corpse a meter before him. Initially John had expected the detective to begin his usual investigation; moving to and fro around the body picking up every minute piece of information about the man his carcass could provide. This is not what happened. John stooped down (strange, usually he had to look up) to spy a glance at the pale face. To his shock it was displaying an emotion the doctor had never witnessed on his calculating friend: fear. Pure, unbridled fear.

"Sherlock, hey it's okay. He can't hurt you now." John soothed in his most practiced doctor voice, the one he used to comfort on the battle field, and consul frightened children at the surgery. When he received no retort about how obvious he was being the doctor reached out his hand and genteelly placed it on his flat mate's shoulder. This he soon learned was a mistake.

"Don't touch me!" The voice shrieked as the small body pinned itself to the railings of the stairs.

"Sherlo-," the doctor began, but suddenly stopped when he saw the wide gray eyes fixed on him, fear visible in the breath that shook his chest.

"HELP! Someone help me please! Help!"

"Sherlock, listen you're safe, I promise you're…" the doctor stopped his plea when his pint sized friend tried to flee only to be stopped by the now cool blood loch.

"Help!" The frantic prayer fell into hysterics as the boy melted into a pile of fear and tears as he clung to the bottom rung of the stairwell. Unable to go forward because of the death before him, and the path back to the flat blocked by a very confused doctor he seemed to try to make himself smaller as though doing this would allow him to disappear.

The army doctor too deflated as the uncertainty hit him. His flat mate was suffering from severe distress he knew he had to help him, but he did not know how. Unable to come up with any other course of action Watson leaned over to pick up the blubbering mass at his feet.

"No!" came a raw shriek as small hands tightened around the wooden rung. As gently as he could John reached down and carefully unwrapped the tiny appendages, once this task was complete he stood up with the light load wrapped in his arms. He had prepared to be bombarded by little hands and feet as he made his way back up to the flat, but it seemed the hysterical fit led to an inability to fight back even as the mantras of no and please continued. John was entirely grateful that Mrs. Hudson had chosen this week to visit her sister.

Once back in the flat John made quick work of the lock and chain. The mass in his arms had seemed to settle down considerably so he was taken by surprise when he felt teeth bury themselves in his right bicep. Base reaction caused him to drop the bundle as years in the army allowed a slew of colorful words to leave his mouth, by the time the doctor had control of himself again Sherlock had pulled himself into the small space between the wall and couch. Unsure of what to do and as he had given into his two other instincts sets already John begrudgingly walked into the kitchen to clean his freshly acquired wound. While waiting for the water to get hot so he could sterilize the bite Watson's eyes glanced over to the calendar. It was a Thursday; made sense he had never quite gotten the hang of Thursdays. John's mind would have continued wandering down this path, but it was interrupted by a small sound in the living room.

"Pardon?" The doctor intoned as he rolled up his sleeve. The bite was bleeding, but was not too deep. The blonde was relieved to see it would not need stiches.

"I said," began the small frightened voice, "'when are you gonna kill me?'"

"What?!" the injury was forgotten as John whipped around. While the room was still absent of one albeit short detective, the sound of sniveling was still present. Making his way to the being's last known location John got down on his haunches to peer into the small space. It was dark, too dark to see anything occupying the space, but the soft shuffling confirmed the doctor's thoughts. "I'm… I'm not going to hurt you Sherlock."

"Don't lie to me," the disembodied voice mumbled, "There's a dead man down stairs. He was pushed, and has been down there for a long time. You worked together… didn't you?"

Silence once more filled the flat. It permeated the small space as John tried to comprehend what was being said to him. "Sherlock," he started sounding calmer than he thought possible "I've never met that man, and I would never hurt you. I promise."

"I'm not stupid," the statement was meant to be full of venom, but failed, "I… I saw the skull on your mental with the knife next to it. Is that what you'll use? That knife?"

John did not know how to respond to that. He really did not know how to deal with any of this. Sherlock was acting like they had never met before, like he had never seen his skull, like he was a… John's mouth suddenly became dry, "Sherlock, what's the last thing you remember?"

This time the anger was present in the high voice, "I went to bed last night in MY ROOM, and now I'm here. Its ob'ious that you took me, and you're gonna kill me," he voice broke with tears "stop talkin' and just do it already!"

As the sound of desperate balling filled the air John tried to breathe and found it extremely difficult. His best friend was a child, a child who did not recognize him. He would not let himself think this was worse than watching Sherlock die, than Sherlock being dead, but it was difficult. The Sherlock he knew was gone, and now he was a petrifying kidnapper/killer in the eyes of his terrible, wonderful flat mate. Tears began to fill John's eyes as the prospect of a life without Sherlock filled his mind. No more giggling at crime scenes, fights about the milk (why did he leave this morning? If he had stayed…), odd experiments in the kitchen, violin playing at all hours of the night, no more amazing deductions… John's brain skidded to a halt at that thought, there was a chance, "Sherlock, Sherlock listen to me please," he pleaded, "Listen Sherlock you are amazing, actually you're brilliant, and you can know everything about a person just by looking at them." The tears had calmed down considerably; John prayed that meant the child was listening to him as he continued on, "Sherlock I need you to do that now. Look at me and tell me what you see. Sherlock please, please."

Sniffling could still be heard from the shadow, but it did not sound nearly as hopeless as before. "I… I'm not very good yet," the shaky voice started, "Mycoff just started teachin' me…"

"It's okay Sherlock, it's okay please just try, please." John knew he was betting on a wild card. This Sherlock, had already made some faulty deductions about the situation, but he was banking on the fact that Sherlock may be able to read people better than circumstances. He realized it was a long shot, but it was also his last chance to get any kind of trust from the child.

A breath was drawn in the darkness and John felt his heart jump in anticipation for whatever the results would be. "You… you were in the army, your hair is short, and most people don't keep it that short."

"Good that's good Sherlock." John coaxed the nervous sounding deductions, so different than what he was used to hearing "Yes, I was in the army."

"Where you were, it was hot. Your hands and neck are both dark, but it is from a long time ago. The tan faded but the dark skin is perm'nent."

"Brilliant Sherlock! What else?"

"I… I don't know," the voice became quiet, unsure.

John's heart fell. For a child what Sherlock had done was amazing, but being in the army was no reason for the boy to trust him. He was unsure what he had expected, and had started to get up when a tiny arm shot out of the shadow. "Wait!"

John settled back down and paused while the hand retracted.

"You're sad."

"Yes," John admitted "I am."

More silence, the doctor's ears seemed to strain for an eternity before the voice came again, "John?" It breathed.

A shuffling sound came from the depths of the shadow until a brown head of curls was visible. Stopping at the entrance of his fortress the child sat back still safely out of reach of the doctor. John gasped as he suddenly took in the face before him; the angular cheek bones were now covered in a layer of fat giving the once thin face a rounded shape and somehow the detective's eyes seemed to have become larger. What broke the doctor's heart though was the puffy redness around the eyes, the tear stains dawning the cheeks, and the visible snot under his nose. But before where John had seen fear in the gray eyes the child looked at him now with confusion and what may have been hope.

John gasped "Yes. Yes that's right Sherlock. It's me. It's John." Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. The doctor in him could not help but think both men were going to be severely dehydrated if things continued this way, but his slowly raising hope made it hard to care. "How," he whispered "did you deduce that?"

The child's head cocked slightly to the left as John suddenly felt the familiar sensation of being picked apart. He had not realized how much he missed it until that moment.

"I… I didn't."

John stared back at the child trying (and failing) to mirror his activity. What did he mean he didn't deduce him? "What do you me…?" The question died on his lips as the child emerged completely from his oasis of darkness and dust bunnies. John froze as the child approached him, eyes locked onto his visage. "What are you…?" Once again the question expired in the doctor's throat as a pale hand reached toward his face. Inhaling sharply the child seemed to steel his courage as he closed the remaining distance and placed his hand on the blonde's cheek, gray eyes searched blue under drawn eyebrows.

"John," the child whispered, "you're John." The next thing the doctor knew small arms had encircled his neck. John quickly reciprocated.

* * *

**Thank you for reading; review if you feel obliged.**

**Have a wonderful day and a fabulous tomorrow!**

**Nikola **


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello everyone. I know it has been awhile, but I have been having trouble deciding what to do with this story. I originally planned to explore Sherlock's childhood as Doyle never did so in his books; however from what I can tell from the internet series three is actually doing this and thus creating cannon for the show. I am trying to stay away from spoilers until the episodes air in the U.S., but I fear my story may no longer happily coexist with the show as I do not have this information. **

**That being said, I am going to post this chapter now and I may go back and re-write it later or just make this an AU if there is no way to make the new information work.**

**As before, any spelling mistakes in Sherlock's speech are intentional. I'll stop blabbering now. Enjoy.**

* * *

John Watson had many strange days, but by 7:53 a.m. this Thursday had easily pushed itself into the number one spot. As he kneeled on the floor hugging his de-aged (That seemed to be the right word. Wait, was that even a word?) flat mate he tried to push that thought out of his mind. Placing his hands on the tiny shoulders he pulled the small body away so he could look his best friend in the eye.

"You know who I am?"

"A'course."

"So you remember then?" The doctor could not help his voice sounding hopeful, "You remember everything?"

Sherlock suddenly looked down at his hands, seeming to find them very interesting. "No," he muttered. The boy must have sensed this was not enough because he continued, "I don't 'member how, but" he lifted his eyes back up to John's with a lopsided smile, "I know you."

"Sherlock, how can you know me without remembering me?"

"Well, you're John. You're…" he hesitated "you're my friend?" The child seemed unsure about this response, as though the doctor may correct his false optimisms at any moment. The sinews of John's heart twisted watching this younger version of the detective so unsure about himself and their friendship.

"The very best." The blonde replied with a smile. He was not prepared to be tackled the rest of the way to the ground by the boy initiating yet another embrace.

"I've never had a friend a'fore." He whispered into the man's ear. Unsure how to respond to this outward flow of emotion (the adult Sherlock had always worked so hard to hide them) the doctor placed his hand on the child's back, taking up its majority and moving it in a clockwise orientation. He was rewarded by a contented sigh tickling his neck.

Seemingly satisfied that he had been given a full answer the child's hand reached over to brush John's arm, the small body went ridged with obvious concern. John had forgotten the bite in the odd conversation, but suddenly it was brought back to the forefront of his mind.

"It's alright," the blonde assured, "It's not too deep. I'm going to bandage it up and it will be good as new." This insurance did nothing to stem the horror that was spreading through the young body.

"I did that."

"Sherlock its fine."

The chubby face was suddenly buried into the center of John's t-shirt as the child started to frantically speak into the material.

"Sherlock…" John grunted finally sitting back up, "hey Sherlock it's okay really."

"No it's not," The child cried turning his face up towards the doctor with teary eyes. "I was a'scared. I didn't know what was happening and I hurted you. I hurted you John, and now you're not gonna like me anymore. You're not gonna want to be my friend anymore." Tears began to run down the already pink cheeks before the face disappeared back into the sanctuary of worn cotton. "I'm sorry," came the hiccupped voice, "I'm sorry don't hate me John, please don't hate me."

John began rocking back and forth with the precious bundle pulled tight to his chest. "Sherlock I want you to look at me, can you do that?" stifling sobs the dark curls tilted back until the blonde could see two orbs of grayish green. "Alright Sherlock I want you to listen to me. I promise that there is nothing, absolutely nothing that you could do to make me hate you. I will always be your friend." The doctor smiled, "You're stuck with me; do you understand?"

"But," the child sniffed "I bit you and you're bleedin'."

"You were scared Sherlock," the doctor soothed while brushing dark curls off of the damp forehead, "and if anybody ever tries to hurt you I want you to do exactly that. You did very well; you were brilliant."

"Really?" The young eyes lit up slightly. John was still trying to get used to his flat mate's now extremely expressive face (well that along with the fact that he was currently a slightly amnesic child…).

"Yes really." The doctor intoned, "Now no more tears okay? We're going to sort all this out and everything is going to be alright." The army captain realized he had no idea how he was even going to begin to fix this situation, but looking down at the shrunken face of his flat mate he knew he would do anything to help him get back to himself.

"Okay," the child reached up to wipe the final remnants of tears from his large eyes, "thank you John," he sighed.

"Not a problem Sherlock," the doctor intoned while carding his fingers through the long dark locks. Whatever might happen next John was content to find that the pint sized detective was calmed considerably by his words; the arms that had formerly been fighting to hold his torso had now settled and the small body relaxed against him. It was somewhat unnerving to think that his ridiculously tall and distant flat mate was now seeking such comfort from his presence, but his smaller packaging was making it difficult for the doctor to find this situation odd. The soldier assured himself that his need to protect was built out of love for his best friend while his doctor instincts pointed to a possible release of vasopressin, commonly known as the father hormone. 'Sentiment or chemical defect, really John,' a baritone huff echoed through his brain causing an involuntary smirk to grace the doctor's face.

No matter what kind of chemistry was happening in his noggin the question now was how to fix this, and if John were to be frank with himself he really did not know where to begin to re-age the child currently clinging to his chest. Normally when Sherlock did something out of hand the doctor had a short list of allies to help in in his fight; he quickly worked through the short list.

Topping the group was Detective Inspector Lestrade. Typically the DI was called in when the consultant did something which might not be seen as "legal" and he would need to get the department to turn a blind eye, or when he was trying to save the flat from explosion via Sherlockian boredom. John dismissed the thought of calling Greg almost immediately; this situation was defiantly not his division.

Mrs. Hudson was on deck after the detective inspector. She was like a mother to the detective, and this caused her chastisement about decency and cleaning to be taken better than most, but she was out of the city, and would probably be just as stuck as he was. The doctor sighed in resignation; there was only one person who he could foresee being able to help.

"I'm going to call Mycroft," he announced into the stillness of 221b.

"You can't! erupted the clarion voice in his arms.

"Sherlock," John started, "I know you don't want to call your brother but…"

"No. I want to call him," the child explained, "but we can't. I'm not 'llowed."

"What?" The doctor huffed, "Of course you're allowed." He looked down at the bundle in his arms expecting to see deception written on the tiny face, but found its space to be filled with nervous determination.

"Father says I'm too much of a distraction," came a resigned sigh "He sent Mycoff to boardin' school so he wouldn't be bothered by me. I can only call him once a month and I talked to him three days ago. I'm not s'pposed to call again."

John took in the information. Of course Sherlock would think Mycroft was still in school, the doctor had expected this. What he did not anticipate was Sherlock to claim he was not to bother his brother even though he earnestly sounded like he wished to speak to him.

"You want to call Mycroft?"

"A'course I want to call Mycoff; he's my brother. He cares 'bout me, and I care 'bout him."

"Oh," John breathed. It was truly the only thing he could say. Hearing the detective put his thoughts about the British government in such an innocent and honest fashion was quite heartwarming, yet upsetting knowing how their relationship would change over time. "Well, the doctor said after emerging from his thoughts, "You've gone missing haven't you? Don't you think that Mycroft will be worried?"

The child's eye's became distant and John realized he was seeing a miniaturized version of Sherlock's thinking face. John was struck by a sudden thought. What about his best friend's mind palace? The detective's memories of his adult life seemed to be completely gone (except that he "knew" John. What did that even mean?) He had even had difficulty deducing the doctor not half an hour ago. Was all of that really done? What if he could restore his flat mate's body, but not his memory? Unconsciously the doctor tightened his arms around the child, trying to keep even more of his friend from slipping away.

"Okay," John jumped as he came back to the situation at hand. Sherlock looked up at him, mouth set in a resolute line.

"Huh?"

"We can call Mycoff," the child clarified "I don't want him to worry."

"Oh. Right. Yes, good," the doctor nodded slipping his hand into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone.

"Whas that?" little eyes fell on the plastic in the soldier's hand.

"My phone?" The doctor probed looking at the offending device.

The room filled with a glorious laugh unhindered by inhibition or fear, the sound only children seemed able to produce. "John," the child explained through bubbling chuckles, "Thas not a phone."

"Yes it is," confusion colored John's face.

"Really?" the child giggled, "If it's a phone then where are the buttons?"

The doctor stared at the grinning face before him, until suddenly, "Oh! Of course," the grown man felt a grin creep across his own face as he pushed the power button on the thin brick and slid his finger across the glass, revealing his home screen.

A gasp escaped the tiny mouth, but the doctor had not completed his trick yet. Tapping on the call symbol the magician summoned the dial pad, "There are the buttons," he said casually.

Small hands came up to the doctor's examining this conundrum, "Amazing," the child breathed, eyes wide with wonder. "How'd you do that John?"

"Magic," the blonde shrugged. He could not suppress his giggle when he saw the child roll his eyes at his explanation. He stopped though as he watch the child begin to pick out a number, his pale index finger jabbing quickly at the squares and bouncing back up.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling Mycoff's school. You can't even feel the buttons John."

The soldier chortled at his flat mate's finding, "Give it here." He finally managed.

"Why?" The young boy questioned but handed over his treasure (albeit slowly).

"You don't have to enter in the number; I have Mycroft on speed dial."

"You know my brother?!"

"Yep, and I think its best I talk to him first. Let him know what's going on."

"Okay," the child nodded, "But can I still talk to him?"

The doctor smiled "Of course."

Hitting the speed dial number six John placed the phone against his ear sharing an encouraging smile with his flat mate. The line rang three times before the unmistakable voice of Mycroft Homes could be heard through the speaker; "Doctor Watson," the voice sighed "to what do I owe this unexpected… and early call."

"Hello Mycroft… um well" John suddenly realized he had no idea how to explain what exactly had happened to the logical man on the other end of line, "well we had a bit of an incident this morning."

"Oh good heavens. Did Sherlock blow up another microwave?" The palatable grump exposed the elder Holmes' immediate annoyance at being bothered for something so trivial.

"Not exactly," the solider stuttered, still trying to decide how to tell Mycroft that his little brother was now much smaller. His brain continued to sputter until he felt a tug at his sleeve; the pull came from Sherlock who was standing by his side trying desperately to hear both ends of the conversation.

"Please?" The small lips mimed as the body shook with anticipation. As the doctor was stuck as to what to do next anyway, and he felt an urge to reinforce any politeness from his flat mate he passed the phone to the excited child.

"Hi Mycoff!" Stormy eyes lit up with a thrill. John watched the boy continue his side of the conversation with obvious delight and rapid swiftness. "Don't tell Father I called 'cause I just called a few days ago, but I didn't want you to worry. I'm okay. I'm with John, and guess what Mycoff? He's my friend! We're best friends! Do you know him? You must 'cause he had your number in his phone. And Myc his phone is amazing! Mycoff?" The happy dialogue stilled, "Mycoff are you there?"

The child tilted his head to the side, listening to the receiver before handing it back to John, "He wants to talk to you." The small shoulders lifted in a shrug but the doctor could see he was somewhat disappointed.

"'llo?" Placing the mobile back to his hear the blonde waited as he heard tatty breathing on the other end of the phone.

"John," The flustered voice whispered, "I'm going to be there in fifteen minutes."

"We'll be looking forward to it." John was surprised by how calm his voice sounded.

Pushing the end button to terminate the call the doctor looked into the expectant eyes of his tiny comrade. "Your brother will be coming by in about fifteen minutes," he could not contain his smile when the child heard the news.

"Mycoff is coming here?!" The boy's legs spasmed beneath him in the form of an impromptu happy dance.

* * *

**Microsoft Word thinks that spasmed is not a word, but Google does so I'm going with them. **

**So what do you think? Should I just keep going as planned or change it after I see the current series? Do you like where this is going? **

**If I continue as it is now next chapter will have Mycroft (or Mycoff, which is now how I see him) Leave a review to let me know if you feel obliged. Have an awesome day!**

**Nikola **


	4. Chapter 4

**You flatterers! Thank you for all of the insight, because of your comments I have decided to continue the story as I had written it sans season three. I felt so over whelmed by your support that I have decided to give you chapter four early. I will not normally update this quickly and it may be a while before I do again, but I just wanted to show my thanks. Here it is enjoy, and thank you again.**

* * *

John allowed himself a moment to enjoy Sherlock's delight over the idea of seeing his brother, a display he had only glimpsed in the past when an interesting murder presented itself. Suddenly though the realization hit him that neither he nor the excited child was decent for visitors. The t-shirt which had only been fit for sleeping before now had salt puddles, snot stains, and drying blood on the sleeve, the doctor was pretty sure it would be making a voyage to the rubbish bin that very day. While Sherlock, well aside from the fact that he seemed to be thirty years too young was in a shirt turned dress which was in a similar state. Pushing himself up from the floor, John ventured into the kitchen and quickly set about making bread into toast and warm water into tea. Out of habit he reached up and pulled two mugs from the cupboard before stopping himself. The milk which had started this whole problem was down stairs near a quickly stiffening corpse, and Sherlock, a sudden pain rung in his chest. The Sherlock he knew only took sugar in his tea, but this Sherlock (no, he was still Sherlock, just… younger) did not seem in need of caffeine. No tea then.

Crossing the distance to the refrigerator the doctor opened the door to see if there was anything drinkable which was both child appropriate and still in date. After bumping around a few jars of questionable content, John finally found a pint of orange juice which did not seem to be an experiment or biohazard. Grabbing it and the strawberry jam he quickly prepared the toast and poured two glasses of OJ, taking an experimental sip of his first before deeming it acceptable for the child.

Picking up the meal meant for Sherlock John spun around, and nearly dropped the entire thing on the floor. The miniature visage of his flat mate stood not a meter from him. How long had he been standing there?  
"How long have you been standing there?" Voicing the question seemed the only way to get an answer. This attempt however, was in vain as the child seemed to ignore it entirely.

"Wha's that?" He asked instead.

It took a moment for the adult to understand what was being asked. "This," the doctor said once he had gathered his wits, "is breakfast." John walked into the living room, clearing a spot on the coffee table for the dishes. "I want you to eat this." He explained while crossing to unlock the door for Mycroft's convenience. Now that he knew Sherlock would not try to run it no longer seemed necessary to keep it bolted. "I'm going to run up stairs and change. I'll be back in a shake, alright?"

John turned to see the mop of curly hair bob in understanding before he shot up the stairs. The pajamas were hastily replaced with a pair of jeans and a jumper. Digging in his dresser John found a t-shirt; it would still be a horrible fit, but it was a tad shorter than Sherlock's own, so would decrease his chance of tripping, and was not covered in bodily fluids. Reasoning his find tolerable for the current moment John descended the stairs.

"Sherlock," he called, "I found another shirt for you so you can look presentable for your brother's…," the scene he witnessed taking place at the coffee table stopped John in his tracks.

The small body was kneeling close to the table, a crumb covered plate positioned before him. Two petite hands clasped the glass of orange juice, tipping it back to the point where it hid most of his face. After what felt like long minutes the glass' bottom connected with the oaken table with an audible clink. Red jam was smeared over the pale cheeks, painting a clown like smile onto the normally stoic face.

"You ate," the observation came out as a whisper.

The child scrunched his face in confusion. He looked down to his plate, and then back up to his friend, "Wasn't I suppose' to?"

"No."

Sherlock's look of confusion grew, "But, but you told me to eat, and gave me food."

"No, I mean yes, I did ask you to eat and I'm glad you did. I just," the doctor floundered, "I just didn't expect you to."

Dark hair tilted to the left, "Why wouldn't I eat?"

"I…I don't know." He truly did not.

The child shrugged in a very Sherlock way. It was odd watching the mannerism of his best friend performed by the small form. John was pulled out of his musings when he noticed the boy had begun to speak. "Sorry?"

"You said something about my brother earlier?"

"Oh, yes, right. I thought we should clean you up a bit. I've got a shirt here for you, but I think first we should wipe off your face."

A tongue protruded from the sticky lips and began an explorative search around the surrounding area scrubbing at the sweet substance. "There!" came a happy exclamation for a job complete.

John felt it begin in his stomach and push its way up and out of his throat; a bubbly giggle filled the air. He could not help it, the action had been so childlike, so innocent, and yet something he could honestly imagine his adult flat mate do in one of his more juvenile moments. The doctor continued to chuckle as he walked into the loo to receive a flannel and dampen it with warm water. He returned to wipe a very perturbed looking little face until it was slightly pink, but clear of the fruit spread. Bottom lip protruding slightly, Sherlock huffed a sigh, but could not hide his grin when his hair was rumpled by the older man's hand.

"There that's much better," the doctor intoned. He turned around to retrieve the shirt, which had fallen to the stairs in his shock. "Alright now what do you say we put on a clean OH GOD!"

Upon rotating back to the child the doctor received an eye full of his naked flat mate, albeit said flat mate was currently a youngster, but the sight was still a surprise. The stripped body advance upon the gob smacked man until he grabbed the shirt from John's grasp, and slipped it over his head.

"There," Sherlock puffed, "better?"

John managed a nod while trying to debug his eyes. He was a doctor and soldier, and as such had seen many men nude, but that was more of his best friend then he had ever needed to witness. Before John could comment on why stripping like that was not okay, footfalls were heard on the stairs.

"That sounds like your brother," the blonde managed once he found his voice again. The two listened as the stairs continued to creak until it sounded as though the shoes were traversing the small landing. The door calmly pushed open and Mycroft Holmes stepped inside, John's forgotten milk in hand.

A small gasp escaped into the air and John suddenly became aware of something clutching his pant leg. Looking down he found Sherlock clamped to his side, arms wrapped around the doctor's thigh and face buried into his jeans. Whatever reaction John had expected, it had not been that.

"Sherlock, what are you…?"

The small face tipped back until the solider could see the gray-green eyes looking fearfully at him. "He's upset. He's going to be mad at me. He's going to…" The small arms tightened around the trunk of John's leg, "don't let him take me John, please." The face burrowed back into the blue material, but muffled pleading could still be perceived.

"I don't understand what has gotten into him," John apologized while turning back to the elder Holmes, a hand subconsciously reaching down and resting upon the soft curls in a comforting manner, "he had been very excited to see you…"

John let the sentence trail off as he took in the face of the British Government. His complexion seemed to have lightened by two shades, and his features which were normally smoothly composed emulated the shock he must be feeling. Sensing the eyes of John Watson upon him though he soon schooled his expression into its mask like appearance, "I think I understand," Mycroft managed after a moment. Setting down the milk he removed his jacket and then the vest beneath it, shedding two portions of his three piece suit, and then using his umbrella for support lowered himself to a kneeling position on the floor.

"What are you," the doctor was interrupted once again by a look from the man now kneeling on the floor. Choosing not to interfere, John simply waited to see what would happen next.

The red head cleared his throat, and then, "Ahoy Captain Sherlock!" came a crow from the grown man, "First mate Mycroft reporting for duty."

John was beginning to wonder if he had just gone insane, it would explain why his entire morning seemed like an episode of _The Twilight Zone. _He had half convinced himself of this psychosis when he felt the vice grip which had been cutting off the circulation to his foot loosen. The hand upon the thick locks picked up the swivel of the small head as it turned to take in the other man before tilting back up to look at John. The doctor in return looked down to see hesitant eyes gazing into his; a little hand snaked its way into John's and after a silent conversation the child released the doctor's leg and together hands entwined approached Mycroft.

The normally intimidating man waited patiently until the ill clothed child stood eye to eye with him. Here though the young boy paused, contemplating if he should continue. Sensing his trepidation the doctor gave the hand encased in his a quick squeeze, with this vote of confidence excepted Sherlock slowing removed his hand from John's, and before he could change his mind laid both of them on his brother's face. The government official closed his eyes as tiny fingers explored each crease and crevice until finally reaching his hairline. Sucking in a breath he pushed the ginger hair back revealing an old scar.

"Mycoff?"

The normally cold eyes opened with a warmth John had never, in all his years of knowing the Holmes brothers seen, "Aye aye."

A small body collapsed onto the expensive tailored shirt of the man. "Mycoff I didn't know, I thought… it's just… you look like him. I thought he was coming for me."

"I know Sherlock. It was a perfectly sound observation based on the information you were presented."

"But I…I don't understand. This isn't right."

John watched in awe as Mycroft Holmes enveloped the tiny body in his arms, shushing into the hair with a soothing voice, "It is alright, Lockie, I will take care of this. You have my word little brother." Standing from his place on the floor the elder Holmes carried his sibling to the couch where he sat down still clutching him close and continued to mumble. It soon became clear to John that the two were having a conversation in hushed tones, the older asking questions whilst the younger answered them comfortably as he rubbed some of the expensive fabric of the elder's shirt between the pads of his thumb and index finger. This continued for about ten minutes until Sherlock seemed to still, relax, and to John's surprise fall asleep.

With practiced skill Mycroft laid the lithe figure on the couch beside him, but continued to run his fingers through the dark curls. "Before he was born," the seated man began addressing John for the first time in about fifteen minutes, "he was to be named Sherrinford."

"What?!" This was not happening, Mycroft Holmes was not casually telling John about his de-aged flat mate.

"Indeed, it was a family name, passed down for generations, and meant to be his as well. That was of course, until he was born." Twisting a curl between his fingers he continued, "When Mummy first saw him she could not resist naming him Sherlock."

Yes, apparently this was happening. Well, John figured he might as well ride the crazy train for now. "Why was that?"

"Do you know what Sherlock means, Doctor Watson?"

"Can't say I do," the soldier admitted.

"It is of Welsh origin and while it was once somewhat common is now generally unheard. Translated it denotation is 'fair haired'. When my brother was born he had the palest, straight blonde hair, nay I would say it was almost white. Our parents could not resist the chance to brand their child so fittingly." The small smile on Mycroft's face took on a sadder shade, "I'm sure you can imagine their disappointment when his true locks came in."

"No," John stuttered, "I can't say I can. That's, that's terrible."

"Indeed." The somber man agreed, "They did their best not to show it of course, but I was only seven myself, and could sense their discontentment. Sherlock being who he is realized this fact very early in his life."

"Wait, no hold on that can't be right," John's face scrunched in confusion, "I've met your parents and I wouldn't call them anything but doting. It always drove Sherlock mad."

The slightly receding hairline tilted back until the official's eyes met the other man's, his face creasing into what the doctor called the 'really John' expression. "You've met Sherlock's legal parents. Mummy has always been…sentimental, and Stewart is as fond of Sherlock and I as any stepfather could have been with the situation he came into."

"So, Stewart isn't your biological father?"

"Of course not. Didn't you see his ears?"

'Obviously John,' the baritone rumbled in the doctor's head. He mentally shooed it away, "So then your father?"

"He was a terrible man Doctor Watson. Brilliant, but terrible. As I am sure you could pick up from my brother's reaction I took after him aesthetically. His face peers back at me each time I catch my reflection." The elder Holmes sighed, "I'm sure you've noticed by now that Sherlock was a rather different person in his youth than who he grew into."

John nodded to show he followed.

"He was always intelligent, one of the few positives gifted by Father's DNA, but he was also curious and full of energy," Mycroft chuckled softly, "he was always getting into everything, or coming back into the house covered in mud. Mummy found it enduring, her little scientist making discoveries about the world, Father saw it differently. Every mistake he made, every childhood fear, foot print on the carpet, or show of weakness he took as a personal affront. I reason it was that Sherlock took on none of his appearance, he accused Mummy of adultery whenever he did something inappropriate claiming 'the bastard was obviously not his blood.' Then he would punish Sherlock as he saw fit."

"Oh," the doctor clasped his hands together to stop them from visibly shaking with anger.

"Of course he was the one being unfaithful, divorced Mummy when Sherlock was seven to marry his secretary. He wasn't going to leave Mummy and Sherlock with a pound (he still considered me is son so I was to be taken care of at school), but Mummy found a superb lawyer whom she took a liking to; she and Stewart married two years later. I had come back to town for part of the case. I was fourteen at the time but will never forget Father's face when Sherlock's paternity test came back proving he was indeed my father's son."

Doctor Watson stared at the man before him unsure how to react to these sudden realizations about his friend's childhood. Sensing his trepidation the British government seemed to shake himself out of these thoughts.

"Yes, well that is neither here nor there. We must, doctor focus on the problem at hand."

John nodded, happy to see the venerability leave the powerful man's face as he stepped back into a position of power. "He was injected with a syringe," the soldier supplied, glad to help in any way possible, "the reaction took approximately an hour to initiate, leading to a violent reaction which produced what you see before you. I have never seen the likes of anything like this throughout my study or practice in medicine. "

"I would hope not," the government man intoned, "as it is not supposed to exist."

"I take it," the military man stated after a moment with crossed arms, "that you're 'minor position' allows you access to such supposedly fictional treatments."

"It isn't a treatment, at least not in the medical sense of the word. It was meant to be a humane safe guard against future terrorist acts. Never to be used on our soil."

"I'm not following."

"No I suppose that was rather vague. Let me try once more. Do you remember your excursion to the Baskerville facility?"

A dry chuckle rose from the other man, "Is that some kind of a joke?"

"Simply checking your recall Doctor Watson, after you and my brother had your little escapade with that dreadful H.O.U.N.D incident I felt the need to keep a closer eye on the workings of our government employed researchers. We could not let something the likes of that happen again."

Watson nodded in understanding and agreement.

"One of the projects I took personal interest in was the romantically although I must admit aptly named Rewrite." Mycroft paused to sort his thoughts then continued, "The project was headed by three associates, William Bradshaw Ph.D. of botany and human biology, Martin Phillips Ph.D. of psychology, and Dr. Emily Stapleton who is certified to be and is involved with many developments taking place there within."

"Dr. Stapleton mentioned she had fingers in many pies when we first met her," John stated before he drew in a sharp breath, "you mean she had something to do with this?"

A bob of the other's head answered his question. "She continues to be an essential of the organization, yes. Although her interactions with you seemed to have changed her ethical views of many of her… dealings. She was the one to draw my attention to Rewrite in actuality."

"Oh, good. Right, so back to the project?"

"My apologies, the events of this morning seem to have derailed me a bit." A sardonic smile ghosted across the ginger's face, "I am afraid my brother possesses the more scientific mind, but to my understanding Rewrite was based on the idea of antithesis mitosis. That is to say," another pause, "Doctor Watson what makes a man?"

John faltered, "That's rather poetic for a Holmes isn't it?"

"I mean scientifically, what physically makes up a human being."

"Mycroft I'm a doctor. I know the anatomy of a body."

"Well I would hope you do, but what makes up the anatomy? What are the building blocks of every living thing?"

"Mycroft," the doctor hissed, "while I appreciate the science lesson I don't see what this has to do with Sherlock!"

At the mention of his name, the small body stirred, quietly muttering something until his older brother's hand began to comb through his hair again, a contented sigh leaving him as he fell into slumber once more.

"Everything. It has everything to do with him, now I must ask that you keep your voice down. He obviously needs his rest."

John opened his mouth to reply, but bit his tongue. No matter how insane this situation or annoying the elder Holmes the doctor could never bring himself to wake his sleeping flat mate. After all he rarely got as much as he needed. "I'm sorry," he sighed "I'm just feeling a little unnerved by this," his hand gestured to the calm visage of his shrunken flat mate, " I don't know what to do."

"I understand," Mycroft's hand rested in the forest of chocolate locks for a moment before continuing its calming movement, "All living things are made of four elements: oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen. As I am sure you know matter can neither be created nor destroyed, so for antithesis mitosis to occur the excess mass of the living body must be removed from the item of study. In the case of mammals it is excreted through the mouth and nasal cavity in the form of CO2. This compounded with other aspects of antithesis mitosis leads to the reduction of the figure to an earlier physical state, as you can plainly see."

John's mind attempted to process this information, and deemed it rubbish. Yet the proof was lying in front of him, close enough to touch. Squeezing the bridge of his nose to fight against the impending migraine John heaved a sigh, the deep rumble of his friend's voice rattled around in his brain, "When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains no matter how improbable must be the truth."

"Antithesis mitosis, right. I guess that explains his size, but Mycroft he doesn't remember anything past the age of three…"

"Four," Mycroft cut in.

"What? No Mycroft look at him, based on his size he is about thirty six months of age."

"He was always a little smaller than most," the other man began, "No Doctor he called me 'Myc,' he did not start that until he was four years old, before then I was always referred to as Mycy. This is Sherlock Holmes at four years of age, I can guarantee it."

John could not stop the smile which spread across his face, "He used to call you Mycy? That's so… sweet," the doctor looked down suddenly realizing how private the sight of Mycroft caressing his little brother was. "You were close then? The two of you?"

"I suppose you could say we were, before I betrayed his trust… I must confess I feel somewhat guilty taking advantage of the situation like this. My brother would normally avoid my sight like the plague, yet here I am stroking his hair. It really isn't fair."

Hearing the regret in the other man's voice the doctor quickly spoke, "He needs you now. I mean he wants you here, you should have seen how excited he was to know you were coming Mycroft. There may be some bad blood between you, but right now your brother, your younger brother is taking comfort from your presence. You don't need to feel any shame about that."

"I can see why he keeps you around," Mycroft showed a small honest smile of gratitude. John was beginning to question if any of the Holmes' stoic masks would be in place by the end of the day. "But you are right, while William Bradshaw found the means of instigating the reverse cellular generation; Martin Phillips was in charge of the psychological side of the project. As I have mentioned Rewrite was meant to stop terrorist attacks. The regression of the agitator's body was simply for the ease of apprehension and incarceration. I am sure you can imagine a child would be much easier to control then an adult, but if these individuals were meant to be," Mycroft searched for a word, "rehabilitated, drastic measures would need to be taken."

"What do you mean drastic?" The doctor asked, while he felt skeptical he could feel the hairs begin to rise on his arms.

"According to psychological study the early years of life set the makings of a person's beliefs, personality, cognitive ability,aptitude to form connection to others, and disposition, among other things. The list can go on, but I am sure you understand what I am saying."

John felt himself become numb; his mouth felt thick with cotton, but somehow was able to produce a noise to express that he understood. "They can change someone…"

"By changing their experiences, yes. Phillips created a compound which could block all but the earliest memories. In animal tests he was able to turn snarling guard dogs into cowering mutts in the course of two weeks."

"Jesus," John breathed crossing to his chair and falling into it. This sounded like the plot of a forgotten H. G. Wells story, not something that could actually be happening. Mycroft stopped speaking for a few moments for which the doctor was grateful. He concentrated on filling his lungs with deep breaths, trying not to fall into hysterics. When he had finally collected himself John came to a realization, "You said the dogs were 'rehabilitated' within two weeks. Had they been reverted back to their original age then? Is this reversible?"

"It is," the British government conceded.

"Good. That's good. What are we waiting for then? Let's get your brother back to normal."

Mycroft sat quietly for a moment before he began, "When I found out about the effects of Rewrite, I came in to see the results myself. There were multiple species represented at various points in the experiment, all of which were shown to be interacting with the treatments as well as could be hoped. Phillips was proud of his findings and took my visit to explain that he was ready to move onto human testing. I informed him he would do no such thing."

The man sighed looking at least five years older than he did a moment ago. "Until Doctor Stapleton brought it to my attention I did not know Rewrite was more than a theory," his eyes found those of Doctor Watson, "I know you often question my morals, but I had no intention of letting Phillips manipulate others in such an intense way. In all of their studies it was found that the psychological modifications had a continuing effect. Those experiences had during the program seemed to overwrite the originals. This ability was too dangerous, even for the crown. I stated thus to Philips and he became enraged, he ended our interview with his renouncement of the facility, and has been off the radar until today. As of right now we can only return Sherlock to his physical state, although I fear this would cause more harm than good."

"But wait," shuddered John, "you just said he has shown up on your radar. I know you have skills when it comes to abduction Mycroft, and while I don't normally approve of those methods, it seems like a necessity in this situation."

"I'm afraid he would be unable to help us now."

"Why? I know you parted on bad terms, but I'm sure he would help if you explained…"

"Doctor Watson, Martin Phillips is currently lying at the bottom of your stairs, staining your landlady's fine wooden floors."

The flat fell into uncomfortable silence.

* * *

**Silly Mycroft, those elements only make up 96% of living matter. So I'm a teacher and as such I cannot seem to write a tale without throwing in some education; I recently explained erosion with Pokemon (ie why rock type are weak against water type... there is a lesson plan and everything) to some of my students so I guess having a nerdy teacher isn't all bad. Right? **

**I apologize for the cliff hanger. I don't mean to leave them with you really; they just happen.**

**Anyway what do you think? Do you like caring Mycroft (Mycoff)? Leave a comment if it strikes your fancy and have a fantastic weekend.**

**-Nikola **


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you notes:**

**Thank you to all of my readers for being patient. I can only write bits and pieces in between my crazy schedule so I can not foresee when I will update again, but know I am continually working on this story. **

**Thank you for all of the lovely reviews, they are wonderful and make my day. **

**I would also like to take a moment here to thank my beta reader Cassie, who puts up with my rambling questions and fears with unending patience and praise.**

**All of you are fantastic. **

**Without further ado here is chapter 5.**

* * *

John Watson sat in his chair staring at the best friend's brother trying to absorb the information he had just received.

"Dr. Phillips, he was the one who did this to Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid so," the elder Holmes sighed moving from the couch to pick up and replace his vest. Leaning over once more he picked up his suit coat, retrieving something from its pocket before positioning it over the small child. Still sleeping peacefully, Sherlock nuzzled under the coat, unconsciously burying himself in the familiar scent.

"But, why?" The doctor questioned pulling his eyes away from the scene on the couch, "we didn't even know him, why would he come after Sherlock?"

"Firstly, he came after the both of you," the government official explained settling into his brother's leather chair, and offering up the object clutched in his hand.

John instantly recognized a capped hypodermic needle, an exact replica to the one Sherlock pulled from his arm with the exception of it still being filled with a blue tinted, but transparent liquid.

"This was on the person of Dr. Phillips. It seems he was expecting to encounter the both of you, but only had the chance to use the one."

"So you're saying…"

"If you would have been here, there is a high possibility that both of you would have found yourselves in Sherlock's current situation."

Watson leaned forward, "but why? It doesn't make sense for him to come after us."

"I fear," the government official sighed, "it may be my fault. When I terminated his position Phillips declared that I would soon regret it. I assumed he would come after me, never did I think he would come after my brother." Mycroft's eyes wandered to the lump under his jacket, "Who knows what he planned to do to him. What devices he derived to manipulate…" The authoritative man clenched his hand, "it is a shame he has already met his end, I can assure you he would have regretted his engagements with my brother."

John swallowed at the vice heard in the other man's tone. Mycroft was usually so controlled in his emotions to hear his voice filled with so much conviction was truly frightening, even if the emotion came from an older brother's need to protect. The air fell into stillness, and John cleared his throat unable to bear it anymore.

"Okay," he began, and then more calmly, "okay, so Phillips will not be able to help, but I'm sure you have other scientists who can crack the code. I mean if someone as plum crazy as he can figure it out. I'm sure you must have someone just as intelligent- if not more. Someone stable minded, who can figure this out, yeah?"

"Indeed," the elder Holmes nodded his head in agreement, "it can be done, but it will take time." With this Mycroft stood, "I will have some of his things from storage sent to Baker Street, and of course," he looked around the room distastefully, wrinkling his nose, "this place will need to be made suitable for a curious four year old."

"Wait," John shot up from his chair, "you want to leave him here with me?"

"Yes," Mycroft turned to face the doctor, "is that a problem?"

"Well for one I have my job at the clinic; I can't be in two places at once."

"I will find a suitable replacement for the duration."

"Then there is Scotland Yard, and Mrs. Hudson will have a heart attack if she sees him like this."

"I will tell Lestrade not to call until further notice, and I will be sure your land lady is informed of my brother's current situation."

"Mycroft, I…" John sighed, letting his shoulders drop, "I told him to eat and…and he did."

The government official lifted an eye brow, "I would say that is an improvement Doctor Watson," he stepped closer to the short man, "why would that cause you reservation?"

John kept his eyes on the floor as he felt the Holmsian gaze analyzing him. He tried not to flinch, but it was always strange when it was Mycroft's eyes burrowing through him. He pulled in a deep breath pushing down the urge to punch the other man in the nose. Even after knowing the brothers for all these years it was still a persisting impulse in response to the elder Holmes which never seemed to fade.

"Ah," the partially suited man intoned, "you fear changing him. That your influence on this younger version of my brother will make him into something new, someone dissimilar to who you know."

"Well that was the point of the project wasn't it?" John felt the words catch in his throat, "remake a person by rewriting their earliest experiences and memories. Who knows what I could do to him," deep blue eyes lifted to find Mycroft's face at this admission.

"True, that was the idea but my brother has always been exceptional. While Sherlock is the first human test subject it had been noted that all the test animals seemed to only recognize their handlers from their early days. From what I can perceive he seems to be very comfortable with you, and in the span of his life, you have only been present for a very short portion."

John nodded, "He said he knew me, but he doesn't remember me. I'm not even sure I understand what that means."

"It is rather peculiar," Mycroft agreed, "but then this is Sherlock. His mind has always defied all understanding but his own. Whatever the reason he seems rather comfortable in your presence, and I feel it would be in his best interest for him to stay with you."

This small speech over, the elder Holmes excused himself as he walked toward his younger brother's bedroom. John began to protest, but was stopped by a slightly coherent mumble from the couch.

"J'hn?"

The doctor knelt by the couch where the dark head of curls began to poke out from under the coat followed by a pale plump face. Blue green eyes blinked heavily against sleep as a small fist came up to scrub against his face. A curl fell down into the drowsy eyes and John found himself pushing it back into place without so much as a thought, "I'm right here. Did you have a nice nap?"

The angelic face took on an indigent expression, "I don't need to nap, napping is for babies," a yawn ruined the boy's argument, but he continued, "I prob'ly don't even need to sleep."

"Now," John chuckled, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. Sleeping will help you to grow up big and strong."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, without lifting it from the leather upholstery, his warm check sticking to the polished animal skin. The effect was a look of disbelief.

"Trust me Sherlock, I know this. I'm a doctor."

At this the child peeled his cheek from its position, leaving it pink as he sat up allowing the expensive suit coat to pull on his lap, "You are?" He asked in wonder.

The solider felt the words hit him with a pang, but tried not to let his face waver. Of course Sherlock would not remember he was a doctor, he did not remember anything past the age of four. John shook his head and reminded himself that he was lucky that his best friend knew who he was, everything else may come later.

"He certainly is," a voice drawled behind John, "and I expect you to listen to him, is that understood?"

A broad smile broke out on the boy's face, "Myc! I thought you left." Sherlock pushed himself off the couch, running to stand in front of his brother.

Mycroft crouched down to the now much younger Holmes' level keeping his hands behind his back. "I do have to be going," the man paused as the sight of a lower lip sticking out and beginning to quiver. "Now stop your pouting, you're a Holmes. Do you remember what that means?"

"We stay strong," the boy whispered lowering his face."

"That's right Lockie. We stay strong no matter what." A hand came forward to tip the small chin up to where Mycroft offered a smile, "I'll be back soon though, and you can call me whenever you want."

Sherlock fidgeted with his hands, "You won't be too busy?"

"For you? Never." The child's face split into a wide grin, and worry abated he took in the stance of his older brother, namely that one hand was still hidden behind his back.

"Mycoff what are you hiding?" Sherlock tried to peer around the taller Holmes, but Mycroft stood up with surprising grace and turned, continually keeping the item from his brother's sight.

John collapsed on the sofa and watched the strange act play out before him. Sherlock running trying to get behind his sibling, giggling whilst Mycroft continued to evade his brother's every trial, an honest smile pulling at his lips causing lines to form around his eyes. Eventually the dance came to an impasse, Mycroft using John's chair as a barrier between them looking ready to bolt at the smallest twitch of his brother's facial expression.

"Mycroff," Sherlock giggled breathlessly, "what is it?"

The government official watched his brother bouncing, nearly jitter with anticipation as he slowly pulled the object from behind his back. John looked on perplexed, in Mycroft's hand sat a well-worn stuffed bear with matted brown fur. John had found many oddities around the flat over the years (mostly body parts and mold experiments), but the teddy seemed distinctly out of place.

"Boswell!" The excited exclamation was accompanied by the sound of feet scampering as Sherlock approached and plucked the stuffed animal from his brother's hand. He pulled the toy to his chest. Mycroft reached down to ruffle his brother's locks as he promised to come back soon.

With Sherlock happily occupied Mycroft turned back to John who stood as he approached, "I'll have my assistant send over the clothing, and other items you may need." Reaching over he picked up his jacket and pulled it on, brushing out any wrinkles with a sigh.

John stared at the other man for a few seconds before he burst into laughter, causing Mycroft to shoot him a perplexed look. "I'm sorry, but you just pulled a one eighty from playful older brother to diplomat it three seconds flat." John continued to guffaw as the red head looked down and scuffed the toe of his polished leather shoe.

"Yes well, I've always worn numerous hats; just because you haven't seen them does not mean they do not exist."

The doctor continued to chuckle, but tilted his head to show his understanding.

"Speaking of which I do have other responsibilities for the day, such as cleaning up this mess, I trust you can handle things from here?"

John peered over to the child who was now inspecting the cluttered bookcase the toy hanging loosely from his hand.

"I think I can yeah."

"Good, then I'll be seeing you. Good day doctor."

Watson turned quickly back to the retreating man, "Wait," he was gifted with a backwards glance, "how did you know to bring the teddy with you?"

"I didn't," Mycroft smiled, "It was in his bedroom cupboard, hidden in the far left corner." He paused to take in the look on the doctor's face, "his name is Boswell, and Sherlock would have been lost without him."

* * *

**Oh Mycoff. As an older sibling myself I have always imagined that he was a good big brother, but things got mixed up when Sherlock fell into his drug use. **

**In A Scandal in Bohemia Holmes tells Watson, "I am lost without my Boswell."This line is meant to pick on Watson as ****James Boswell was the famous biographer and Sherlock comments constantly about how John romanticizes (or adds color and emotion to) the detective and his work. We get a call out to this line in the ****_Sherlock _****series when the sleuth says "I'd be lost without my blogger," but I wanted to bring it back by naming Sherlock's teddy Boswell. Man I'm a nerd. **

**So what do you guys think? Was it fluffy enough? Leave a comment if it strikes you. **

**Thank you for reading and have an awesome day. **

**-Nikola**


	6. Chapter 6

After Mycroft's retreat John closed the door and released a breath. He was feeling more confident, there was a plan in place and the power of the elder Holmes was behind it; all he had to do was keep Sherlock alive and give him similar experiences to his first childhood and his best friend would be back soon.

As quickly as it loosened the doctor's chest constricted once more as the pressure of this responsibility settled onto his being. Sherlock was brilliant, how was an average idiot supposed to provide the experiences he needed to become himself again? John closed his eyes and let his forehead fall until it rested on the cool veneer of the door.

"John?" The question was paired with a slight tugging on the soldier's right pant leg. Cracking an eye open the doctor found the tussled head of curls next to him, small fingers gripped the fabric of his jeans as the other arm held the beloved bear to a small chest. Quizzical sea green eyes regarded his with expectation.

The blonde felt his heart swell and shoulders relax as he took in the child next to him emulating both trust and confidence. If Sherlock felt he could do this then he was not going to let him down.

"Yes Sherlock," the doctor smiled as he scooped the boy up in his arms and rested him comfortably on his hip, the action seemed odd in hindsight, but it had been the most natural act while he performed it. Shaking his head to dispel the thought to consider later he turned his attention back to his charge, "what is it?"

The child was examining the makeup of his care giver's jumper, fingering the woolen pattern on the doctor's chest and decidedly not making eye contact.

"Sherlock?" the doctor reached over with his free hand and tilted the tiny chin up until their eyes met again, "is everything alright?"

Large eyes regarded John before the child sighed and leaned into his side, gifting the doctor with a comfortable warm weight as he buried into his side, "Did somethin' happen to me?"

Despite the warmth Sherlock emitted, John felt himself chill at the question. Before he could decide how to answer the quivering sound continued.

"You're my best friend, but you're an adult," the child looked up, "I don't think Mummy would like that."

"No I don't think she would," John conceded after a moment.

"An' Mycoff is old," John had to fight to stifle his giggle as the child continued, "but he's only seven years older than me. If he's old I should be old too, and then there's your phone." The child's face became very serious, "it doesn't have buttons, John."

The doctor nodded to show he understood.

"So somethin' happened to me, 'cause you and Mycoff are old and have phones that shouldn't exis'," the child began to speak more quickly as John felt the tiny heartbeat increase, "Myc knows about you and wants you to take care of me when Mummy would want me to be with her…" The wide eyes became larger as a thought struck the child. "John," the small voice creaked, "John is… is Mummy…"

"What? Oh God, no Sherlock," John soothed carrying the child as he crossed and sat down in his chair. He wrapped his arms around the small body shushing until the quickened breaths evened out. "You're mummy is fine," John explained, "I can talk to Mycroft about seeing her if you'd like."

"Really?"

"Yes really, and I'll have you know you're mum finds me delightful," he flashed a grin at the small form in his arm, "she told me herself" John tightened his hold on his flat mate, "but you're right" he continued after a moment, "something did happen to you."

Soothed by his friend's words Sherlock relaxed again, leaning his cheek against the prickly fabric and beckoning an explanation with his eyes.

John sighed as he collected his thoughts. "This morning you were an adult," small eyebrows rose in speculation, "you were! I swear," the doctor chuckled at the disbelieving look before sobering as he thought about his next words. "I was," guilt halted the blonde's voice, "out, and a very bad man came here, he attacked you and planned to take you away."

"But he didn't take me," Sherlock answered quickly before his face became thoughtful once more, "Why didn't he take me John?"

"Because you fought back. He wasn't expecting that." He peered down at the child and smiled, "he didn't know how brilliant you are."

A blush spread over the pale face which quickly burrowed in John's pullover.

"What are you doing?" John smiled, playfully poking at the tiny ribs until giggles erupted as hot breath through the jumper knit, "If I didn't know you better I'd think you're being shy."

Gray eyes peaked back up at John from a still mostly hidden face. "You really think I'm brilliant?"

"I know you're brilliant," a tan hand ruffled the dark locks, "you are the smartest person I know."

The little head shook side to side as its brow furrowed, "Myc is ten times smarter than me, at least" the explanation was quiet but firm, "I'm not smart."

"Sherlock Holmes," John began gripping the child's shoulders for emphasis, "I never want to hear you say that again. You are amazing, do you understand?"

"I guess," came the mumbled reply.

John had been mentally preparing himself for many things when this conversation began, but not this. To say the least his flat mate had always been proud about his cleverness and intellect, often lording it over those who he saw as idiotic. The act was a bit not good, but this, a young Sherlock who doubted his genius, who could not even begin to see himself as bright was oh so much worse. Watson looked down at the small being clad in an oversized shirt perched on his lap. The head had ducked down and away from John as tiny hands fiddled with one another anxiously, easily voicing the child's unease with the current conversation.

The blonde worked his jaw as he took in the spraining scene. No. This would not do, it would not do at all. Decision made the doctor stood carefully, setting his ward on the worn chair cushion as he crossed to the overfilled bookshelf.

"Wait!" The fearful shriek pierced the too quiet room, "don't leave me," the tone meekly subsided, "please."

John took a steadying breath and turned to find the child plastered against the interior of his chair's nearest arm, attempting to close the sudden gap between them whilst still keeping a barricade between him and the words he feared would fire from his friend's mouth. Small arms clung to Boswell; seeking comfort for the on slot he feared was to come.

"Lock," the nickname slipped from his lips before John had time to consider it, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm just… I want to show you something, alright?"

The child raked his eyes over the doctor seeming to search for some sign of deceit. Finding none he nodded cautiously, and John took this as permission to finish his mission. Scanning the spines of the numerous volumes his eyes finally lighted on the desired text which he pulled down and dusted off.

The year before last Sherlock had given Mrs. Hudson a digital camera for her birthday. The land lady had been ecstatic and much to the detective's distain (although John had noted how the kaleidoscope eyes seemed to lack the usual heat while scolding her) began snapping photos incisively. By the following Christmas she had returned the favor by gifting her boys a scrapbook filled with newspaper clipping of their cases and shots she had taken while at home. This book now lay nestled in John's arms as he quickly retreated to his red chair and best friend.

Settling back in his chair with a puff the doctor turned to find Sherlock burrowing into his side, his tiny body the perfect size to sit comfortably next to his caregiver even in the cramped space as he hid his face once more. John cautiously lifted the child into his lap and placed his hand onto the dusky curls hoping to coax the big gray eyes back out into the world. "Sherlock," he whispered, "I want you to know something. No matter what happens I am never going to leave you. Do you understand?"

"Even if I'm not smart?" The words were muffled as the pale face was still hidden, but John understood the question anyway.

"Even if you weren't smart. I promise." John smiled although his chest ached. Whatever happened in his friend's childhood he had clearly not gotten the entire story form Mycroft. The doctor made of mental note to fix that at the earliest convenience. For now though the little face peered back up at him which John cajoled with a smile. "But," the doctor began maneuvering the volume and boy until both he and Sherlock were in view of the large brown leather cover, "I know for a fact that you are very smart."

"Whas that?" Small fingers reached out to grip a corner of the cover, seemingly transfixed by the up until now unnoticed object and ignoring his friend's remark.

"It's a book," the soldier chided hoping to get a response from the slightly morose boy.

"Ob'iously," the child rolled his eyes, but could not hide the slight grin on his face. "but wha kinda book?"

"It's a scrap book. It has odds and ends from papers, magazines, and photos that people take. It's also my proof to show you how brilliant you are." The blonde sighed, "The man Sherlock, the bad man who did this to you… he wanted to take you and change you so you never became the person in this book."

"Why?"

"Because you Sherlock Holmes are a very important person, you stop bad people and he wanted to stop you from doing that," John knew what he had described was not quite the truth but telling the child in his arms that his beloved brother was partly responsible for his… regression did not seem like the best idea. As the doctor spoke he lifted the cover of the book to the first page containing Mrs. Hudson's loopy scribe. "To my dear boys," John read "all of my love. Mrs. Hudson."

The small face wrinkled in confusion, "who?"

"Mrs. Hudson is our land lady, but she looks after us like a mum."

The child hummed at John's response in a very Sherlock way, and turned the page to find the next littered with paper clippings from their earliest cases together. Most of these (as requested by the detective) did not mention the duos involvement in cases, but Mrs. Hudson had dutifully saved each one regardless, highlighting the sections stating how the criminals were found based on a tip provided by an outside source (mainly Sherlock Holmes).

"Jeff Hope," John was pulled out of his thoughts by Sherlock's utterance.

"What was that?"

"This man,' Sherlock explained pointing to the image of the killer cabbie from their first case with a tiny index finger, "this man his name was Jeff Hope."

John felt his heart start to flutter in his chest. Sherlock remembered, he could recall the cabbie's name!

"You remember," John breathed.

"'Member wha?"

"The cabbie," John sputtered, "from our first case. You remembered his name." The solider smiled brightly but it began to recede when he saw his little companion's face looking back at him in confusion. "You do remember him. Don't you?"

Sherlock stuck out his lower lip in a pout, "No. I just read it. He killed people, it says right here," he jabbed at the yellowing paper.

"You can read," John snorted in disbelief.

"'Course I can read, I'm four and two months," the child lifted an eyebrow at the adult and John heard the internal baritone sneer 'really John.'

"You are bloody brilliant," the doctor chuckled remembering how he struggled to read until he was eight, but quickly sobered. "Sherlock I want you to try to remember everything you can okay? When you're older you have a way to remember things called a mind palace. You have rooms for all sorts of things, and I know that must still be in there somewhere. If you start to recall anything I want you to tell me alright?"

"Alright," the child nodded and John was all at once impressed by how well the child took this insanity that he had woken up to as Sherlock began flipping through the pages once more until he came to the point in the detective's career where his image began to leak into print.

"John!" Sherlock bounced excitedly on the doctor's knee, "look it's you!"

The doctor peered down at the page to find an image of Sherlock and himself after a successful case. John stood in one of his jumpers and simple black coat while Sherlock stood slightly farther up in the foreground stoic in his fitted suit as his dark coat bellowed out behind him. John smiled at the moment captured in ink, but Sherlock seemed perplexed.

"An' that's me?"

"Yep that's you Sherlock."

Small hands turned the page to reveal a similar article and picture, and then again to find another, and another. The flipping became slightly frantic, and out of concern John steadied the trembling hand with his own, "Sherlock… hey Sherlock calm down. What is it?"

"I," the small bodied quivered as it drew a breath, "I look mean… and scary," the curls tilted backward until young gray eyes found the elder's blue, "John am I mean and scary?"

John gazed down at the small face and worked his top lip with his teeth while he considered the question. "That depends," the solider answered slowly, "on who you ask."

The gray stare did not waver pushing John to continue.

"If you are asking me then no. You're my best friend, mate do you really think you would be if you were cruel or if I was afraid of you?"

Sherlock considered this and then slowly shook his head to the negative.

"Here," John said turning the pages until he reached the home photo section, which told a very different story of the detective.

The first image captured the tall thin figure standing in his best dressing gown playing his violin completely lost in the composition and backlit by the windows in their front room.

In the next John resided in the kitchen making three cups of tea on a seemingly ordinary day in the flat.

Another was taken in Mrs. Hudson's flat after a case had wrapped up. An animated detective took up the center of the image, arms outstretched and fingers splayed as he recounted a pivotal moment of a case while John reclined on a nearby couch, tea in hand and grinning like a mad man as he watched his friend.

Sherlock glaring at the skull which rested on his chest.

Sherlock at the entrance of the flat kneeling as he pet Toby, a mutt who he sometimes commandeered from an old client for tracking during cases. A lopsided grin graced his face as the dog licked his chin.

John and Sherlock caught in the midst of a snowball fight outside of 221.

Mrs. Hudson attempting a self-portrait and only getting half her face.

And there were more, at least ten pages were full of domestic images showing the consultant as many never had the chance to see him. After a few moments of examining these images John felt the tension ease out of the small body as he melted back onto John's abdomen.

"You see Sherlock. You only pretend to be like that to scare the bad guys."

"Oh," the boy said after a moment, "so I'm like Batman."

"Yes you're like… wait," John gaped down at the pint sized detective, "you know about Batman?"

"John, everyone knows about Batman."

"Right sorry. I just never pegged you for a kid who read comics."

"I wasn't s'pposed to," the child looked down and tugged at Boswell's ear, "Jenny gave 'em to me."

"Jenny?" John questioned intrigued to find out more about his best friend's childhood, "who's Jenny?"

"She was my nanny. She was from the United States, she bought comics 'cause she liked to read them, and sometimes she let me read them if they were app'opriate." John nodded as Sherlock continued, "she let me keep some'a them, but I messed up." The stuffed ear was now completely compressed by the tense hand. "Father found them and he was angry… really angry. He asked me where I got them an' I was scared and told him Jenny gave them to me. He… he fired her, said she was filling my empty head with dri… dripple," the child huffed with frustration at being unable to form the word.

John cringed at the story, but attempted to help, "drivel?"

"Yeah that," the child nodded solemnly, "it means nonsense or rubbish."

John placed his hand on the small shoulder, thinking the tale was over, but then he heard Sherlock mumble something under his breath.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"I said," the child sighed, "he burned 'um. Threw them all in the fire place and made me help. When they were all gone he… he shook me and told me heroes don't exist."

John's mouth suddenly felt dry as his body began to shake with rage. What kind of a parent does that to their child? The solider clamped his eyes shut and tried to control his breathing. In and out. In and out. In. and out. When he found his voice again he finally spoke. "He was wrong, you know that don't you Sherlock?" He wrapped his arms around the small body and pulled it closer, "your father was an idiot, because I know a hero."

"You do?" The small voice suddenly sounded hopeful.

"Yes I do. Sherlock I have worked cases with you for a long time now, you could have done anything, but you choose to solve problems that no one else can. You've saved people's lives, and you help the police, I'd say that makes you a hero."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a few moments before a small smile broke out on his face and he wrapped his arms around the doctor's torso. A comfortable silence filled the flat as the two friends took comfort in the simple embrace.

"John?"

The doctor hummed to show he had heard.

"John why do you have a skull?"

"I don't," The blonde chuckled, "the skull is yours."

"Really?!" The boy suddenly excited squirmed off of the jean clad lap and rushed over to scramble up the bookcase, sending notes and scrap paper flying as he quested for the skull resting on the mantel.

Laughing John quickly got to his feet to aid his friend before the child managed to impale himself on the harpoon casually leaning against the fireplace. And just as suddenly as it had left the sense of normality was restored to 221b Baker Street.

* * *

**Does this chapter make any sense? I feel like I've been looking at it too long and it's just letters on a page right now. Anyway I think this is about as fluffy as my cold angsty heart can get.**

**I love the idea of Lil Sherlock being inspired by Bats, as really much of ****_The Batman_**** has been drawn from Holmes. I also imagine Sherlock was reading silver/golden age comics (Batman was ****much**** more friendly before the 90's) Role reversals! Yea!**

**Please review if you feel inclined. Have a fabulous week and thanks for reading.**


	7. Chapter 7

_How is he? –MH_

John looked from his phone to the child in question. After the doctor had retrieved the precariously perched skull Sherlock had claimed a section of the rug as his own. He now lay spread on his stomach fiercely filling scrap paper with a scavenged pen while simultaneously carrying on a conversation with Boswell and the detective's grinning but forgotten "friend." Anthea [John had long since given up on learning her real name] had dropped by earlier with a box of clothes and left without even a nod, leaving John to wonder how often similar instances happen in her work life for the woman to act with such nonchalance. With less of a fight then he had expected Sherlock changed into the more appropriate attire he currently wore after rummaging through the selection and snatching up a long sleeved blue shirt and jeans.

_He's good, properly dressed and speaking to the skull. It's all very Sherlock-y, well the speaking to the skull anyway. Dressing is always a little more hit or miss. Have you learned anything?_

A short time elapsed before the doctor's phone chimed again.

_We have tracked down some of Phillips' associates, they were unwilling to cooperate at first, but I_ _have convinced them that their assistance is for the_ _best of all involved. –MH_

_Unfortunately their information seems rather unserviceable. –MH_

John leaned back in his chair as the weight of the statement settled into his mind. 'Never texts when he can talk,' the internal baritone quipped.

_Everything okay? _He typed out quickly.

_I have it under control. I just wanted to check on my brother to be sure there were not any noticeable changes, and inform you cleaners will be showing up within the hour. –MH_

John looked around the biohazard he and Sherlock called a flat. There were innumerous ways a curious child could meet their demise in the small area, as already illustrated by the bookshelf and harpoon incident. His eyes fell back onto Sherlock who, while still lying on the floor had begun to kick his feet and twiddle with his vacant hand.

_Sherlock is looking a bit antsy. I think we'll get out for a bit. It will probably be easier for the cleaners. _

After the text was sent the doctor hesitated, but drew a breath and began typing once more.

_Sherlock said some things earlier about his childhood, not good things. I was hoping you could fill in some gaps for me._

John waited a beat, and then another before his phone chimed with an incoming message.

_I was worried something like this may happen. Of course Doctor Watson, but some other time. I am very tied up at the moment. –MH_

_Fine, but we will talk about this._

_I do not doubt it Doctor. Good day. –MH_

Taking the farewell as the end of the conversation John stood up from his chair with an exasperated sigh, no one knew how to dodge questions better than a Holmes. He rolled his neck to and fro relaxing as his spine popped in relief at the movement. Opening his eyes the doctor looked down to see curious gray irises staring back at him, smiling a little as an idea formed in his head John addressed his flat mate, "Fancy a trip to the park?"

A second search of the clothing box was rewarded with the find of a jumper and shoes in Sherlock's current size; it seemed Sherlock was a similar size to what he was the first time around, as his old clothes from storage and thus far fit like a glove. The mini detective easily slipped on the pull over and slipped on his shoes, then suddenly froze.

"Laces," the child murmured under his breath. He began to tangle the offending attachments around one another. Small fingers clumsily working the rope as a small pink tongue slipped between the lips of a very serious face.

John leaned against the wall watching his best friend concentrate on the task at hand. Taking into account that the child was already remarkably observant and could read it was somewhat comforting to watch the small boy struggle with something that his age peers would struggle with as well.

A frustrated huff emphasized with a stomp of the offending shoes drew the doctor back from his musings and into the flat. Sherlock was glaring indignantly at the articles, bottom lip sticking out at the beginning of a pout.

"Hey now, it's okay," John chuckled going to the boy and kneeling down to tie the shoes, "lots of people have trouble with laces. We can work on it later." Finishing his task John looked up at the child who gave him a watery smile in response. With both now ready to go John picked up the small bag he had packed and began to open the door when he was struck by the memory of the corpse awaiting them at the bottom of the stairs.

"Bloody hell," John groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose. How had he forgotten about the dead man who had caused this entire mess? More importantly: when had dead bodies become so normal that they easily slipped his mind? Opening his eyes his saw Sherlock looking up at him expectantly, his flat mate, the one he was used to would have jumped for joy over the idea of a body so close and easy to experiment on, but before him stood a child; a child who had been frightened by the sight of the growing pool of blood and gray pallor of the unnaturally bent broken body. Everything that happened to Sherlock now would override his real childhood experiences, would change who he was and who he will be when restored to his correct age. A bad experience with a body could completely change Sherlock's desire to investigate murder scenes. No, he would not let something so important to the man be taken away from his best friend, not if he had anything to say about it. Shutting the door again he turned at the child who was now bouncing on the balls of his feet in a very recognizable way for many adults.

"Sherlock, do you need to use the loo?"

He was answered with a vehement nod.

"Then… why don't you go?"

"'Cause I don't know where it is," the boy exhaled quickly continuing his agitated dance.

'Idiot,' for once John could not disagree as the rumble reverberated through his brain. Sherlock had not recognized the flat, of course he would not know where the toilet was. Ushering the brunet into the room in question the doctor took the respite to solve the question of getting Sherlock out of the flat without causing him serious psychological trauma. Knowing his time was short, John opted for the quick fix of pulling the deceased scientist to the side of the stair case while throwing about various sheets to hide the carnage. John chuckled to himself grimly, just another day on Baker Street. His task complete, John ascended the stairs to gather his ward. When the doctor poked his head in the door he found Sherlock sitting on the couch swinging his feet.

"All ready now?" John chimed.

"Uh huh," Sherlock agreed, leaping off of the couch to join the blonde who was busy picking up the sack. John quickly checked inside the bag, making sure he had everything they would need for a day out, so absorbed was he in his task that the doctor jumped when something small and warm wound its way around a few of the fingers on his unoccupied hand. To John's surprise he found his hand joined with a much smaller and pale one belonging to Sherlock. While the solider had accepted the fact that his best friend was now a child he was then unexpectedly struck by how tiny he had truly become. John had vivid memories of Sherlock's hands enveloping multiple volumes and tomes at once with ease while he worked tirelessly on a case, but now those same appendages hardly wrapped around his middle and index finger. The thought pulled up a startling emotional weight to his gut, an odd mixture of sadness and commitment settled inside his being: bittersweet. That was the closest label he could find for the sensation.

"John?"

The doctor shook his head only to find an inquisitive chubby face gazing up at him. "Right," John nodded his head affirming to Sherlock and himself that he was back in the here and now, "let's get going, yeah?" He adjusted the sling on the bag, throwing in over his shoulder and then folded his hand around Sherlock's giving it an encouraging squeeze eliciting an excited grin from the curly haired boy. John reached forward with his other hand and opened the door. 'Here goes nothing,' he thought to himself.

XXX

"But John, ducks don't have bread in their natural hab'tat." Sherlock looked up to his elder friend with large eyes, "it might hurt 'um."

"It's okay Sherlock; people have been feeding these ducks bread for years," to prove his point John ripped off a piece of the slightly stale loaf and tossed it into the water, causing the water fowl to swarm. "So for them it is part of their natural habitat, see?"

Hoping to calm his friend's fears over the wellbeing of the animals John offered the bread to the child to examine for himself. The item in question was turned and examined with serious scrutiny before Sherlock carefully pulled off a pinch of crust and tossed it into the water. Upon impact the ducks attack causing Sherlock to giggle with surprised delight, his hands jumping to his face in a sign of glee. John watched it all with a smile, chuckling at his flat mate's obvious joy.

After that display Sherlock seemed to come to the conclusion that the bread would not cause harm to the feathered beings and continued to pull off small pieces of the leavened food to scatter to his awaiting audience, relaxing into John's side where they sat on the grass. The contact still surprised the doctor, but he was beginning to think of it as a child looking for a physical connection to a caregiver instead of an aspect of their friendship. He had seen Sherlock with his mother after all, the elder woman seemed to be a very tactile person, and while the adult Sherlock may find the constant touching irksome, it seemed from his albeit short experience in his younger days the detective might have enjoyed such things, with this is mind he wrapped his arm around the small body. It was a cool autumn day, but the sun had made an unexpected appearance and shown through the deciduous branches, just beginning to let go of their leaves. The two stayed that way until the bread disappeared and the ducks lost interest and left in search of more nutrition.

All was peace and calm for a short time until John suddenly noticed the vacancy under his arm.

"Sherlock?" John scrambled to his feet, spinning in the hopes of finding the tiny detective in the surrounding area. He did not. "Sherlock?" He called again swinging his head to the left and the right. John stopped to listen for a response only to notice how quiet the park was, had it been that quiet before? No, focus. Sherlock, where had he gone? John felt his heart begin to race as he scanned the area. Should he stay where he was and hope Sherlock had only wandered off and planned to return, or go off to look for him? "Sherlock!" The doctor bellowed, but the only sound his ears received was the loud pumping of his own throbbing pulse. Panic. Sheer panic.

John could feel the adrenaline begin to hum through his veins. Find Sherlock, he had to find Sherlock. Scanning the area the doctor decided to investigate a nearby grove of trees first. With this verdict made the blonde quickly began to scale the small hill, whipping out his phone to call in reinforcements.

_Sherlock is missing we're in the park. I don't know what happe- _

Something collided with the doctor's mass. The text was never finished, nor was it sent.

* * *

**Next chapter will have my first ever fight scene. In the past I have done everything in my power to have physical action take place off the page as I find fights difficult to write and harder still to read, but the novel I am working on has fight scenes so I need to practice. **

**What do you guys think? I already know where the story is going, but if you have theories I would love to hear them.  
**

**Thanks for reading and have phenomenal week.**

**Nikola **


	8. Chapter 8

**I think I'm getting soft. Here I left you all with a lovely cliff hanger and now I'm publishing this. I'm blaming it on the fact that I am sick and need some happiness in my life. Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews and anyone who has chosen to follow or favorite; all of these things make my day.**

**A special thanks again to my lovely beta Cassie. **

**Fun fact: Her very first fandom was Aladdin (back in the day when we had to keep our stories is spiral bound notebooks or if you were lucky on a floppy disc). Via her request I have thrown in a line from that Disney movie [fair warning- I had to tweak it a bit] into this work. Maybe you can find it. It could be a bit like finding the Pineapple in an episode of Psych! Or not. Anyway, I'll stop blabbering now. Here is chapter eight. **

* * *

Something connected with the doctor's thigh with clear purpose. Already high on adrenaline and worry John began to spin around, his mind violently spitting out attack strategies and supplying images of what he expected to find before his eyes could funnel light into his optic nerve for confirmation.

Doctor John Hamish Watson was a man slight in stature, had been ever since his youth. People often took in his physical form, pleasant disposition, and wardrobe of choice and believed him to be an easy target. Those people were fools.

The most dangerous people often come across as the most typical. Those who have earned black belts after years of studying a martial art rarely flaunted their training and knowledge by wearing coats proclaiming the name of their dojo (a common mistake of white belts and other lower ranks) because they know the best weapon is the one no one sees coming.

Similarly John, a former cadet of Sandhurst, had a high competency with weapons of all kinds. Such was expected of any doctor who progressed into a regiment he was trained in hand to hand combat based off of Brazilian Jujutsu provided by the British army, and had picked up multiple fighting moves over the years while running the streets of London with his berk of a flat mate. Yes, Captain John Hamish Watson was a deadly fighter wrapped in innocuous wooly packaging and whoever was attempting to stop his search for Sherlock was about to feel the full extent of his rage.

The solider turned around to face his attacker, crimson already leeching into his vision fed by protective anger and worry only to be stopped numb in his tracks by the sight before him.

"Avast," the little voice crowed, "I be boardin' your ship!"

The doctor felt his legs begin to wobble as he bodily deflated. "Sherlock?" John's mouth was dry as his tongue attempted to form the word, tip sticking to the roof of the cave on the final syllable.

"Aye, tha's Capt'in Sherlock to you," a stick, John now realized it was what he must have felt against his leg, flourished in the air, "A hundred bad guys with sw'ards I've slew-ed, you'll be a hundred an' one!"

The doctor stood staring at the boy in question: feet shoulder width apart, forward hand holding his "sword," knees bent athletically. If John was in a more stable state of mind we would have recalled the time his best friend had reminisced about taking fencing in his youth.

"Smartly man," the child scolded tapping the taller man's leg twice more with the stick, "retrieve your cu'lass a'fore I made you walk the plank."

The graying blonde was suddenly in action, springing onto Sherlock and pulling the boy to his chest. Burying his nose into the dark hair John breathed in the odd mixture of Sherlock's expensive shampoo, and the salty odor of childhood sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut. Safe, Sherlock was safe.

"John?" Confusion was laced into every phoneme.

"What the hell," John stopped drawing a breath as he noticed his entire body was shaking from the unexploited adrenaline, "what the hell were you thinking Sherlock?"

"I…" The high voice warbled before dying off.

John pulled the child back from the embrace, holding him by his boney shoulders so he could look upon the young face, "I called for you," he removed his left hand using his index finger to point at the small chest his voice ghosting out in wisps of disapating worry, growing relief and barely contained anger, "I called and I looked and you weren't… you weren't there and you didn't answer."

John waited for an answer, but only received a wide eyed unblinking stare from the pale boy before him, the playful smile which had originally graced his face slipping until his lips fell flat.

"Do you know how scared I was that… that something happened to you? That you were hurt? Or that someone had taken you and I would never see you again?"

Sherlock's sword fell from his hand, landing in the decomposing leaves on the grove's floor. His chest rose and fell quick and erratically before his gray eyes screwed up. John's heart instantly broke.

"Shhh…" he hushed pulling the boy back to his being where Sherlock began burrowing into the doctor's jumper seeking comfort in the refuge that smelled of Earl Gray, sandalwood, clean linen, and some other scent which the child could only peg as John. "It's alright," Watson shushed allowing his body to fall back from his kneeling position so he and Sherlock could be more comfortable.

"Areyoumad?" The words ran together through the near silent tears so the doctor had to process the utterance for a moment before he understood.

"No. No I'm not mad, I'm sorry. I was just worried, if anything happened to you," unable to finish the thought aloud strong arms wrapped more tightly around the upset lad before pulling back so fingers could rub circles on the shuddering back.

Unsure of what else to do to calm his friend, John began to slowly sway back and forth as he hummed a lullaby from his own childhood, the words long lost to time, but the melody lingering on. Time passed without either taking notice of it until Sherlock began to quiet, his breath evening out until all was still.

"Ambush."

"Ambush?" The doctor repeated unsure where the word came from.

The tear lined face unburied from its home to look up at John, "It was an ambush, thas why I didn't answer."

"Ah," John leaned his head back until he felt the rough bark against his scalp letting the words sink in, "is that how you've slew a hundred men, John poked at Sherlock's sides until the child could not hold back his slight giggle, "by catching them off guard? That's not very sportsmen like."

"It's stra'gy, John," Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "a'sides pirates is not a sport," the voice suddenly became very stern, "it's a way a' life."

John tried not to laugh at his young friend's seriousness. He had half thought Mycroft was joking when he stated that Sherlock had once truly intended to be a pirate, but from the thoughtful look on his face Sherlock saw this as a viable employment choice.

"Of course it is," John nodded seriously, "and I'm sure you'll be a great pirate, but until you man your own ship, perhaps you can tell me when you want to practice your piracy."

Sherlock began to chew his bottom lip, considering his friend's proposition before nodding his head in agreement.

"Good," John smiled running his hand through the child's locks. "Now I am famished. What do you say you and me find something to eat?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly, hopping off of John's lap so the man could get up.

XXX

After a lunch where John learned that little Sherlock had quite the weak point for chips the doctor and Sherlock headed back towards 221b Baker Street. The sun was setting, painting the cloudy sky a murky red.

"Red sky at night: sailor's delight," John muttered. He chuckled when he looked down at the small boy next to him. Sherlock peered up at John eyebrows furrowed in question of what he meant. The blonde happily clarified, "it's an old saying," he explained, "Red sky in the morning: sailors take warning, red sky at night: sailor's delight. If the sky is red in the morning, then there is a storm coming, but if it is red at night then you should have clear weather." John smiled, "I figured you might need to know that, what with how you're going to captain a ship, I don't want you rushing off into any storms."

Beside him Sherlock hummed as he contemplated this new piece of information. "You could come with me," the shorter of the two said after a moment, "you're a doctor, every ship needs a doctor, an' if you come you don't need to worry abou' me getting caught in a storm," the sentence was paused for a moment as the boy yawned widely "'cause you'd be with me."

John grinned at the mental image of the two flat mates bickering on the deck of a large pirate ship before he turned his attention back to his ward. When they had left the park not long ago Sherlock had taken John's hand (it seemed to be a childhood instinct) and kept step with the taller man. As blocks passed though the child had begun to slow and drag his feet that, paired with the recent yawn led John to a decision. He picked up the light body, positioning Sherlock so his good shoulder bared most of the weight.

"Jooooooohhhnnnnn!" Sherlock moaned attempting to wiggle out of the doctor's hold, "I'm four," the child huffed indigently, "'m not a baby. Put me down," once again the words were interrupted by a yawn, "I can walk."

"Oh hush up," John grinned, "you've had a big day and we'll get back faster if I carry you for a bit. Besides, you should enjoy this while you can. People don't offer to carry you when you get to be my age."

Sherlock snorted, but gave up his fight draping his arms on both sides of John's neck. The conversation died down for a moment before Sherlock began to murmur again, "an' you're a solider. So you… you know how to fight. No one would mess wi' us…" as this thought left his lips Sherlock seemed to drift off to sleep, lulled by the motion of John's step and comfort felt from the older man's body heat. John vaguely wondered if he should worry about the sheer amount of sleep Sherlock had gotten today, but calmed himself by remembering the transformation the detective had gone through and the needs of a younger body. Soft puffs of breath ghosted on John's neck as he turned the corner onto Baker Street.

The black door to 221b had been replaced it an exact replica, and when John inserted his key it turned with ease. Pushing it inward John viewed the entry way, now clear of sheets and more importantly a decaying scientist. Not one bloody fingerprint was left to evidence the events of the morning. If it was not for the bundle in his arms John may have convinced himself it was all some crazy dream, or hallucination brought about by one of Sherlock's experiments he had unknowingly consumed. Softly shutting the door and locking it John mounted the seventeen stairs, skillfully avoided the tenth which tended to whine when weight was applied to it. Reaching the flat the blonde elbowed open the door and stifled a gasp.

The sitting room which had always been cluttered with papers, dirty dishes, and various other …unique items was now spotless. The harpoon had been spirited away, and the coffee table was cleaned until it shined. Stepping in farther John turned to inspect the kitchen. Wide eyed he took in the tiled room where the table and counters had been cleared of any chemicals and seemed to be scrubbed within an inch of their lives. John was certain if he crossed to the refrigerator it would be vacant of any human body parts. The flat was clean, immaculate, just as the doctor had always wanted it. But then, why was his chest throbbing so heavily?

John knew the answer instantly. It was as though they had removed Sherlock. Swept, dusted, and bagged up all the evidence of his existence and tossed it into the bin without a thought. They had even removed him from the air, the odd mix of formaldehyde, chemicals, and slight cigarette smoke replaced with an over cheery flower mixture. The combination of all of it made the doctor's eyes sting, until he heard a soft snuffle by his ear.

No. John reminded himself, Sherlock was not gone. He was there right now, and this... all of this was done for his benefit, to keep him safe until they could bring him back to who he was. John nodded to reaffirm this fact in his mind as he marched Sherlock into the detective's room.

Laying the child down on the blue comforter the doctor began the task of carefully removing the shoes from the boy's feet. Sherlock was so deep though that John soon found he could move him about as needed without the detective becoming aware. Chuckling to himself because the psudo-coma was very much like the after case adult detective, when the doctor would have to spot the lanky man so he did not fall down the stairs John turned down the blankets and cautiously deposited his friend underneath. Leaving to retrieve Boswell from his perch on the leather chair the doctor returned to the room only to find his feet stuck at the threshold.

The kitchen light fell softly onto the bed, illuminating and highlighting how much of it was left empty around Sherlock. The boy was curled up into himself, taking up only half of one of the three pillows placed near the headboard. Clutching Boswell to his chest John willed his feet to move and approached the bed once more, dropping to his knees so he had a better view of the rise and fall of the blankets as Sherlock breathed deeply in slumber. Without his conscious permission the blonde's hand found its way to the ruffled curls once more as he smoothed them down. He was small. So small, and fragile. How was it that the great Sherlock Holmes had once been so helpless? On a logical plane the solider knew that Sherlock had to have been a child at one point, he certainly have not hatched, but seeing him now…. lifting one of his little arms John placed Boswell next to Sherlock's chest where he was quickly cuddled, the child nuzzling his nose into the bear's head. Running his hand through the curls a few more times, John stood. He had some calls to make and food to inventory; after all he had a growing boy on his hands. Reaching the door John turned back to glance at his friend once again.

"Good night Sherlock," he whispered, closing off the room with an audible click of the knob.

Possible information about John's training history was found here:

Wellingtongoose. "Semantics of Healthcare 2 - John Watson's Dual Career - Firestorm overLondon." Semantics of Healthcare 2 - John Watson's Dual Career - Firestorm over London. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 Feb. 2014.

* * *

**The cliff hanger was a red herring :) Sorry but I've been trying to work through literary devices and have been struggling with that one. I had planned to have a fight scene in this chapter, but then my plans went out the window and we got mindless fluff instead. **

**On a completely unrelated note if anyone feels the bug to create some art based off of this story I am completely fine with that, actually it would probably make my year. **

**So what do you think? Are you enjoying the fluff? Did you find the Aladdin quote? **

**I promise the plot will pick up soon, we just need to get to know the rest of the supporting cast and hope that my fevered mind doesn't veer off track again. It may be a while until I can update again. School is picking up and I really don't want to be sick any longer. Please be patient and thank you for reading.**

**-Nikola **


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello! Thank you for being patient with me. School is crazy right now so it took longer to get this up then I would have cared for. Anyway here is chapter nine. **

* * *

"John," the ghost of the word whispered into the doctor's ear. Still deep in sleep the man in question slumbered on.

"Jooooohhhnnn," the voice tried again, lingering in the doctor's mind long enough for the tanned face to scrunch and for the body attached to turn onto its side, pulling the comforter farther onto its shoulder in the process.

"John," a nudge which could have been a poke accompanied the call this time, "John wake up, 'is impor'ant."

"Mmmhhnnmm," the sleepy solider answered, just conscious enough to realize a response might allow him to sleep a few more minutes.

"Where's your gun?" When a reply did not come the nudge returned, "John please."

"Top shelf of the cupboard," the doctor mumbled, sighing contently when the questions stopped John buried his nose into his pillow. For a few moments he enjoyed the bliss of hovering between the dream world and that of the real before his eyes shot open, the words finally piercing the veil of unconsciousness as understanding finally dawned.

"What!?" John's upper body shot up from his cocoon, eyes searching the room until they landed on the sleep wild curls of Sherlock who was attempting to push the only chair in the doctor's room towards the cupboard residing on the opposite wall.

"Shhhh!" The child hushed, stopping his task only to put a finger to his pink lips. "We have ta be quiet," he explained continuing the arduous task of pushing the chair without it squeaking against the floor, "he might hear you," came the whispered response.

"He. What do you mean?" The doctor spoke quietly if only to calm his visibly agitated flat mate as he climbed out of bed and lifted Sherlock up by his arm pits, resting the child against him. The small face had somehow paled farther than its normal complexion, and his small body was rigid with tense muscles even under his doctor's warm hands. "Sherlock, what is going on?"

"John, please," Sherlock spoke worriedly, "jus' get your gun."

The doctor sighed, but crossed to the cupboard and reached around until his felt the cool metal make contact with his skin. Pulling it out and checking that the safety was on he showed it to the boy and casually tucked it into the band of his pajama pants before he was frozen by a though. "Lock," he began cautiously, "how did you know that I have a gun?"

"Well 'cause," the statement began confidently, but soon the small face scrunched in slight confusion. John watched slightly concerned as glazed gray eyes drifted from his face to an empty corner of the room, seemingly lost in thought.

"Sherlock?" the doctor questioned, eliciting no response from the child. John walked backwards until his felt the mass of his bed against the back of his knees. He settled down so they would both be comfortable and watched his friend carefully. It had been three days since the detective had gone through "the transformation," as John had taken to calling it, and since then the doctor had taken it upon himself to catalog any changes in his demeanor. He had been hoping to notice Sherlock acting like his older self, but as far as John could tell he had acted like a child, very intelligent, but lacking in any of his adult memories.

But this behavior, this was new. Seconds stretched into minutes, but the small body sat unmoving in the soldier's arms, a dazed expression gracing the recently expressive face. John sat, unsure what to do until he felt the palpitations through his and Sherlock's thin sleeping shirts. Sherlock's heart rate had sped up, quickly joined by his breathing. A sheen of sweat soon graced the small brow over still unblinking eyes.

"Sherlock," the doctor intoned more firmly, his initial hope turning into worry upon viewing the strange physical reaction. Once again his call fell upon deaf ears. Worry turning into panic the doctor turned his flat mate so he could look into his eyes to find unseeing pin prick pupils surrounded by green irises.

Not good.

Very very not good.

"Sherlock," the stout man felt his voice catch a bit in his throat as he brought a hand up to the clammy cheek, "Lock please can you hear me?"

Still unresponsive, John brought his other hand to wrap around one of the small shoulders shaking it slightly. After a moment which felt like eons green circles took refuge behind white eye lids, as the small brow furrowed in pain. "Sherlock?" The doctor breathed, unsure if the newest development was positive or negative.

"John?" The small murmur lifted the older man's heart.

Quickly pulling Sherlock into a close hug, John exhaled shakily allowing his hand to pass through the dark curls as he softly pressed his lips to the edge of his friend's forehead. "Oh, thank God. Are you alright mate?" He breathed, "What happened?"

"I," a small hand found its way into the doctor's shirt, gripping tightly at the loose material, "I don't know." The head of curls pulled back to look into blue eyes, "I, my head it hurts. It hurts bad John."

"Okay, it's okay," The doctor sighed hoping he was speaking truth, "let's get something for your head then, yeah?"

"No!"

John gazed down at the worried face in his arms, "he might still be here," Sherlock explained with a wince the result his own voice reverberating through his already throbbing skull. "I heard him," he whispered eyes still locked on John's, "when I was in my room, he's here. Tha's why I needed…" Sherlock began to zone out once more, but shook his head and let his eyes fall back on his friend. "We haf' ta stay here," he whispered, "he's back an' he's gonna hurt you."

"Sherlock," John pushed some of the curls from the still damp face smiling as his flat mate seemed to lean into the touch, "what are you talking about? Who do you think is here?"

"The bad man John, who… who made me little." The quiet voice became almost inaudible as he continued, "He's back, an' he's gonna… he's gonna make you little too. He can't do that 'cause if you're little you'll forget me," The hand twisted in John's sleep shirt seemed to tighten, "you can't forget me John."

"Oh Lock," John used the nickname easily now, over the past few days it had become a comfort to the child and it seemed to only add to their quickly deepening connection, "That man is never coming back. We're safe from him."

Sherlock nuzzled closer to the elder's chest, "promise?" The question came out as more of a whimper.

The solider continued to stroke the child's hair as an image of the dead clouded eyes of Martin Phillips filled his mind could not stifle the pride he felt bubble in his chest as he remembered that Sherlock was the one to stop him, his brave little Sherlock.

John's hand froze in mid sweep as his processed that thought. Sherlock was many things: a brilliant detective, a git, slight lunatic, and the doctor's best friend, but John had to wonder when he had started to see the child in his arms as his.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you promise?"

Pulling himself from his thoughts the doctor looked down at the serious face before him a small smile pulling at his lips, "Yes Sherlock, I promise. I'm always going to remember you; I'll always be here for you. Now, I'm going to see about finding something for that head of yours."

"Wait!" Sherlock plasters himself against John clinging to him in much the same way a koala does an eucalyptus tree, "I still heard someone," his tone is hushed by weariness and John's shoulder. "There's someone else here John, I heard the fron' door open."

"I know," John stated, "she lives here too."

XXX

_Sherlock remembered my gun but when I asked him how he knew about it he spaced out._

_Is he alright? Do you need me to send someone over? –MH_

_No. He seems fine now. Just thought you should know._

_Yes, please keep me posted. –MH_

Hearing the bathroom door open the doctor pocketed his phone just as Sherlock rounded the corner.

"Ready to go see Mrs. Hudson?"

Looking uncertain at first the child quickly nodded his head before he could lose his bravery could fail him; smiling John opened the door of their flat so they could descend to the first floor.

Mycroft had been true to his word when he volunteered to relay the news of the incident to Mrs. Hudson, but as the blonde had expected this did not mean he had been off the hook when it came to explaining everything to their forever suffering land lady. The first night after tucking in his pint sized flat mate and finding that Mycroft's people had not only cleaned the living space, but filled the kitchen with edibles John had been drawn to the living room by the buzz of his phone. He answered it to the snuffling of Mrs. Hudson on the other end, in a way it was a relief to talk to the land lady. Mrs. Hudson had always shown a great love for the consulting detective, and speaking to someone other than a Holmes about the situation made it seem somehow more bearable. The solider found himself calming the motherly voice on the other end for about ten minutes before she had gone into matron mode and insisted that she come home a day early from her trip to take care of her boys. It had taken much convincing, but in the end she agreed to give Sherlock more time to acclimate himself before another person he may or may not know waltzed into his life.

Now standing before the door of 221a, and the memory incident not twenty minutes before the doctor hoped he and the landlady had made the right choice of reintroducing the two that day.

Well, it had to happen sometime.

Drawing air deep into his lungs John knocked three times.

"John!" The loving tone was encompassed by the elderly woman's arms wrapping around the blonde's shoulders.

He breathed in her scent, a mixture of baked goods, soft lilac, and something decidedly organic which could only be her herbal soothers. John felt his body relax just being in her presence, somehow having their land lady back made this entire thing more bearable. "Glad to have you back Mrs. Hudson," he placed a soft kiss on her check, "did you have a nice trip?"

"Oh, well the weather was beautiful; it's always nice to get some fresh air into your lungs. You know how it is here dear with all the smog and smoke, bad for the complexion and breathing. You look like you could do with some country yourself John; you're looking a bit flat." She brought her hand up to his face clicking her tongue in distaste at his apparent color. "My sister has been drinking this new tea. Its support to detox your body, just wash all that rubbish out. Come on in and I'll make you a cuppa."

With this task at hand Mrs. Hudson hurried away to the kitchen to put the kettle on leaving the doctor with an open door and an appreciative grin on his face. John's Mum had passed away when he was in university and their loving land lady had filled a space he did not realize had been left when she welcomed him into her life with open arms. He was about to step over the threshold when he felt arms tighten around his leg, looking down the solider smiled at the small mass glued to his thigh.

"You alright mate?"

Silence.

John dropped his hand on the mess of curls, suddenly worried his flat mate had been lost inside himself again, "Sherlock?"

"She's…she's a bit like my grandmummy," Sherlock whispered seemingly wanting to keep their conversation quiet and the woman in question unaware.

"Yeah?" John crouched down so they could carry out the conversation as quietly as Sherlock whished. "Your gran must be pretty great then."

"She's dead."

"Oh," an awkward hush ate up the seconds as John mentally kicked himself for causing it. 'Idiot,' the mental rumble murmured although for the first time John wondered if that would have been his friend's reaction or if he had already began to morph his memory into something else. It had only been what? Three days? And he was already beginning to question his memories of his best friend. What he already honestly forgetting? Converting the child before him and the man he had known for years into something else entirely?

"Boys," Mrs. Hudson called, from the sound she was still in her kitchen, "you can make yourselves at home on the sofa. Oh and Sherlock love I've made some peanut butter biscuits. Are they still your favorite?"

An involuntary rumble arose from the small stomach, causing the child to cover it with his arms and John to grin. "I'd say she know you pretty well," John poked Sherlock's belly to call forth a giggle as the child playfully tried to shelter more of the area with his tiny arms. "What do you say? Ready to get to know her?"

XXX

John sat on the sofa, Sherlock scrunched up into his side. Despite the small body's desire to stay plastered to the doctor's side gray eyes roamed over each wall and crevice seemingly categorizing every item away for later consideration. John watched it all form the corner of his eye as he listened to Mrs. Hudson hum as she gathered items about the kitchen.

It was a bit surreal watching the innocent face observe the area around them. As an adult Sherlock was always careful to hide his thoughts away behind a mask of indifference, often on cases John would find himself thinking Sherlock was utterly bored until they were in the sanctity of a black cab and Sherlock's eyes would light up with an excitement the doctor would believe insuppressible were it not for the proof he had just witnessed. Here though was his best friend at the age of four, muscles twitching under child soft skin displaying surprise, wonder, understanding, confusion, a multitude of emotions as they played upon in face. As had happened more and more over the course of the last seventy two hours a warm hand wrapped around the soldier's index and middle fingers which John carefully folded his hand around without a second thought.

Mrs. Hudson shuffled in placing a platter of baked goods and toast slathered in assorted jams and sliced into strips upon the low laying sitting room table, "you go ahead and help yourself to some nibbles and I'll be back in a pop with the tea," the land lady smiled and scurried back off to collect the drinkables. Sherlock's free hand reached forward to snatch a sugar coated piece of peanut heaven which he quickly drew to his mouth. The warmth radiated from the freshly baked desert, his mouth watering with anticipation.

"Ah, ah, ah, no," John released the child's hands to stop the other's progress to his mouth. Sherlock looked up at him with pleading eyes which had somehow grown bigger with the thought of the biscuit's loss.

"I want you to have some toast first," John explained.

Sherlock looked down at the treat so close to his taste buds and back at his friend, his brow crumpling in confusion, "Why?"

"Because I don't want you to fill up on treats and not get any toast."

"But John," Sherlock countered, "if I eat the toast then I might not have room for the biscuit, and I want the biscuit not the toast. So I should eat the biscuit first," he nodded his head seriously, "it's the ob'ious solution."

John closed his eyes, drew a breath and tried to suppress a chuckle climbing its way traitorously up his throat. He had to admit that the child's logic did have some merit, a great deal in fact, but the doctor in him knew desert for breakfast was a bit not good.

"An'," Sherlock added excitedly, "peanuts have proteen," he drew the last syllable out long letting it vibrate upon his teeth, "an' thas good. So I should eat the biscuit."

"Sherlock," the doctor let his voice drop at the end of the utterance hoping to relay that he was not going to be swayed on this.

"Jawn," Sherlock looked up at the adult through his wild fringe, trapping him with his large begging eyes, "please?"

Damn. John shook his head trying to come to terms with the fact his best friend had always been a manipulative bustard. "Fine," the words left the doctor's mouth in a huff, "you can have it, but after that I want you to eat some toast. Is that understood?"

The morose eyes suddenly sparkled as Sherlock nodded his head enthusiastically, and John removed to hand, freeing the sugar covered concoction.

"Thank you John," Sherlock munched happily on the biscuit, but laid his head against the doctor's side, electing a grin from the losing man and causing him to place a hand on the child's head.

Yep, definitely cunning, but in a cuddly sort of way.

Mrs. Hudson re-entered the room with three mugs in hand, placing one in front of each of her boys and wrapping both of her hands around her own as she settled into a wing backed chaired. "Well, how it is, then?" The land lady asked, taking a sip of her own tea before leveling her eyes at the boy with a warm smile.

John felt Sherlock freeze next to him his chewing paused so he could swallow the mass of sweetened mush on his mouth. He seemed to struggle to clear this speaking apparati for a long while before John heard the small voice next to him come through, "you know me," the child timidly stated.

"Yes, love," Mrs. Husdon answered hopefully, sliding forward in her seat.

John felt the child burrow further into his side. He dropped his arm from the mass of curls to Sherlock's side hoping to convey that he was safe. Nothing was going to hurt him. Safe.

Sherlock nuzzled his side, seeming to get the message. His resolve renewed he continued. "You know me 'cause I live here in the same building as you," he paused, "John says you're like our mum."

The doctor blushed, but when he looked across to Mrs. Hudson he saw the look of endearment the statement brought to her aged face. Beside him Sherlock was also raking his eyes over the elderly woman as he continued, "I know your hip hurts, 'cause a' how you walk, you've traveled all over 'cause a' all the things in here, and I know you make yummy biscuits 'cause I ate one," he hesitated, "but I… I don't know you."

The land lady visibly deflated the smile of her face dropping as her eyes look on the tinge of sadness. Seeing this Sherlock buried his face into John's side breathing heavily and attempting to disappear behind his friend.

"Oh Sherlock," the graying woman cooed abandoning her tea, and making her way over to the sofa where Sherlock was attempting to tunnel under John. Settling herself Mrs. Hudson placed her hand upon the child's back causing him to stop suddenly. Moving it forward and backward the land lady used her self-manicured nails to lightly scratch his back through the child cotton shirt. John watched amazed as his best friend seemed to lose all fight under the gentle hand, bodily sinking into the cushions of the sofa, and leaving his head sandwiched between the doctor's back and that of the sofa. This continued until the small body had stopped its heaving breaths, and Mrs. Hudson had lifted him onto her lap.

"I didn't mean to," Sherlock mumbled looking across the room. "You're nice. I don't think I'd wanna forget you, but I couldn't help it," he looked up at Martha Hudson's face, "are you cross?"

"Of course not dear," she soothed smiling down at the child on his lap even as a tear made its trek down her cheek.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side in slight confusion, "you're crying," he stretched reaching up to catch the tear on his finger and brought it closer to his face to examine. Suddenly his eyes grew wide in realization, "am I hurting you?" He tried to slide off of her lap, but found himself being caught up in the woman's arms instead.

"No, no," she chuckled pulling him closer. "I'm just a little flustered that's all."

"You sure?"

"Yes love," she smiled, and slowly Sherlock smiled back.

XXX

"I didn't realize you studied at Hogwarts."

"What was that dear?"

John smiled taking a sip of his tea, "What you did with Sherlock, that rubbing his back thing. That's magic if I've ever seen it," he jokingly leaned his elbow into where Mrs. Hudson sat beside him.

She chuckled patting the doctor's knee lovingly, "Oh that? That was just an old mother's nature cropping up. Never really leaves you after you've had it." She returned her gaze to Sherlock who was currently exploring the kitchen half eaten biscuit in hand.

"I didn't know you had kids," John smiled at her before catching a glimpse of her crestfallen face "I'm sorry," he sobered, "I didn't realize…"

"No dear, it's quite alright," Mrs. Hudson forced a smile onto her face before turning back to the child who was now emptying her cupboards and climbing inside.

"He's so small," she breathed, "it's so strange to look down to talk to him."

"Hmm, I know what you mean. I've taken to picking him up; it seems easier to talk to him when we're at least at the same height.

"Mycroft said he's working on a cure of sorts, has there been any news? Do you know how long he'll be like this?"

"You're guess is as good as mine, but we've got an appointment today so maybe we'll get some news. Speaking of which," John looked down at his watch, "we should probably be going. Sherlock! Come on we need to get ready."

A clatter of pots and pans sounded from the kitchen as Sherlock came dashing out ladle in hand. John drew in a breath heading in to the kitchen to clean up the mess, when Mrs. Hudson squeezed his arm, "It's alright John you're in a bit of a rush. I'll take care of it this time."

"Mrs. Hudson you are a saint," the doctor pulled her into a tight hug.

"Oh," the land lady smiled returning the hug, "but just this once I'm not your house keeper."

John smiled at the line which had become a joke between the three as he hurried out the door, "Come on Lock we're going to be late."

"Coming!" Tossing the ladle on the sofa Sherlock sprinted out the door but suddenly doubled back and trapped Mrs. Hudson's legs in his arms, "Bye Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the biscuits, an' sorry abou' the mess."

"Its fine dear, see you later."

Sherlock smiled up at her before heading off. Mrs. Hudson shook her head fondly as she heard her boys dashing up the seventeen stairs.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to my grandmother who (still) cuts toast into strips for dipping in milk, has the ability to put anyone into a relaxed stupor with just a back scratch, and relayed the genius of eating your dessert first to a young Nikola. I hope all of you have someone so special and loving in your lives.**

**So what do you think? Are you suffocating in fluff yet?**

**Oh and the Aladdin quote from the last chapter was "one hundred bad guys with swords," just in case you were losing sleep over it.**

**Have a great week!**

**-Nikola **


End file.
